My husband came home with a miniature food processor one day, which, to me, was way better than a bouquet of roses. We boiled apples in a big stockpot until they were tender, then threw them into the food processor and whizzed them around until they turned to mush.
My mother-in-law prefers a different method, which involves boiling the apples down to a thick sauce, constantly mashing and toiling over her bubbling pot, as though she were mixing a magical potion, only stopping to replenish the water as it evaporates away.
Though both methods make decent applesauce, neither make the right applesauce.
The only recipe I need is my grandfather’s, but he can’t teach it to me because he’s dead. I rummaged through his drawers and binders of recipes left behind in his empty kitchen and found none for applesauce. I know where his recipe is. It’s in his decaying brain and his quiet heart six feet under.
I find I can’t replicate the precise golden color–more yellow than bronze–with flecks of ground cinnamon and nutmeg. My attempts are too spicy or too sweet. I can’t re-create the cold taste that refreshes my hot mouth and hot breath, the taste that cools and warms all at once with love and comfort.
*What is your favorite food to make, to eat? What foods make you nostalgic? Get out your trusty timer and write about it!*