Baked Apples

Fill the house with the smell of baked apples as a welcome snack on a snowy day.

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“I really should write,” I said to my husband as he walked out the door. “But my head is too full.” “You don’t have to, you have time,” he replied calmly. His snowpants, boots, and jacket stifled him as he stood next to the partially opened door, impatient to leave. The kids sat in the car similarly attired. Sleds filled the hatchback.

“Yes, I have time, but that’s the problem. These days I never feel like I have time and when I do have time, I want to take a nap.”

“Do what you need to do, you have the time,” he stressed again. His impatience to go adventure was palpable.

The minute the door closed, the “shoulds” set in. I should write, I should weave, I should start outlining the article I want to write. My dreams from the past few nights have been leading me into a specific direction, but I wasn’t quite ready to take the mental leap necessary to start.

The fluffy snowflakes float down. The cardinal has not been by to visit today. The squirrel nest high up in the apple tree seems forgotten. Because the house is finally quiet, I can hear the crows cawing outside. The old part of the house creaks as the wind blows slightly. It is finally peaceful.

In the past year, with everyone on top of each other, I take my moments when I can find them. I stay up past everyone at night so that I can enjoy the quiet. I shut doors that I used to leave open. The ringer is never on on my phone. I moved my desk into a more secluded area of the house. But it’s not enough to quell my need to be alone.

I tell myself to relax and enjoy the nothing for a little bit longer before I close the computer. I don’t have to be the one to make lunch. There is plenty of food for anyone willing to prepare it.

The house will soon be refilled with laughter and screaming, voices that used to be so high pitched and childish taking on deeper tones. The words and ideas are still unformed and immature at times, but the voices have changed. As often as not, I am no longer “mommy” or “mama”, but instead am “mo-om” or “bruh”. I can see the grown men the boys will be and want to hang on just a minute longer.

So we have these moments.

They go out and sled, run around like the children they still are. Laughing as they get chilled. The door will open soon with a rush of cold air and noise and demands for hot chocolate or Russian tea.

Just another minute longer in the peace. One more second watching white curtains billow from the heating vent. One more moment of just my breathing as I close my eyes and clear my head.

I open my eyes and think I might have just enough time to make some baked apples in time for my family’s return from the sledding hill.

There is nothing like the smell of warm apples and cinnamon to welcome one home. Baked apples are like being embraced. They are the “I missed you”. Imagine being able to say all that without hours of effort.

The Recipe:

If you liked this recipe, you may also like Apple Cake, Champion Apple Pie, and Apple Butter Cake with Caramel Icing