The apple of my pie

Last week I was gifted a large bag of Bramley apples, huge knobbly craiters of jade and they smelt like the freshest of fresh apples that my house has ever had the pleasure to receive. When I say they stank out the kitchen, I mean this in the most positive of ways. It was like living in Armagh in September only without an observatory in your back garden.

Apple pies: The pinnacle of autumnal scents

Just when I thought the smell in the kitchen couldn’t get any better, I fired up an old favourite apple pie recipe and the result was twofold: Dilated pupils and prematurely rumbling tummies. But it was the aroma that done it; it was a scent Yankee Candle would pay a fortune to bottle, warming and heady and homely. After vinegar onto hot chips and fresh bread, home-made apple pie is my favourite culinary smell.

Apple pies: The pinnacle of autumnal missions

I had so many apples last week that I made not one, not two…. but seven apple pies, although in fairness, six of the aforementioned pies were miniature versions. This tack, I immediately regretted, seeing as how delicately placing delicate shortcrust pastry into muffin tins proved to be an extremely fiddly task. Still, I had started so I had better finish and the end result was six no-so-perfectly formed pies, complete with slightly charred pastry, short and crumbly to the point of near-perfection.

There is a reason too, I have discovered, why people buy apple pies in the shops, which is to say, they are an absolute mission to make when you’re crafting both the filling and the pastry from scratch. Moreover, given the amount of sugar and butter which goes into a home-made apple pie, ignorance is bliss.

Apple pies: The pinnacle of autumnal comfort food

Crumblingly short pastry (made with real butter, of course) and succulent but spiky Bramley slices tempered with lots of caster sugar and a little cornflour, a really good apple pie is a perfect creation. Even my own not-so-perfectly formed pies (ill-formed and tubby bodies and the lids a little wonky) were delicious to the point of emotional.

I ate one with a dash of cold custard and a knife and fork. The second went down gulpin-style, standing over the sink with a pie in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. What I should have done, of course, was savour my pies in front of the fire, on a stormy night, the wind whistling down the chimney and the rain lashing the windows.

Apple pies: The pinnacle

Such was last weekend’s apple pie mission, I first swore that I would never make another apple pie in my life; such was the labour intensive mission of cookery. Then I swore aloud when I thought I’d messed up with the miniature pie lids.

Then I swore in awe when the kitchen started to fill with the most satisfying and homely aromas. Then I swore in delight with the first taste of the crumbling, all-butter pastry. Then I saved the best swearing for last when I breathed in that crumbling pastry and it went down the wrong pipe.

Lastly, I vowed that I would never stop making apple pies. They are a long-winded process and they are as futtery as crocheting. But they are also unbeatable for taste, texture and satisfaction – not to mention the celestial aromas which permeate the house from the moment the apples enter the house until the first pie exits the oven.

Just as there is a reason why people buy their apple pies, there is also a reason people continue to make them when season of mellow fruitfulness is upon us: Home-made apple pies are a different species compared to the stuff available in the shops.

Drop me a line if you fancy the recipe.