“Do you want to cut up the apples or help me make the filling?” she asks as we wait for the latest batch of dough to proof.
“Uh, I can do either with some instructions.”
“Take a seat, take this peeler, and start peeling apples. There’s no wrong way, but we don’t want any skin. It doesn’t taste as good when it’s cooked,” she instructs.
“Do you guys do the pie-eating contest every year?” I ask.
“Yes, it was Benny’s idea. She’d been doing it for at least five years before I got here,” Tilly says.
“Wow, so it’s a tradition of sorts.”
“Yeah. I think she started it because it was something your family does every year.”
“What?” I stop peeling to look at Tilly.
“What? That’s what she told me.” Tilly looks at me cautiously.
“That’s really weird,” I mumble.
“Who’s that?”
“My family is like the CEOs of being fancy. I can’t imagine them ever wanting to compete in a pie-eating contest. The mess alone would stress them enough to get more Botox.” I shake my head, trying to imagine my mother doing one.
“I believe she said when everyone is a kid, it’s a family tradition. But everyone grows up and then it stops. So she brought it here to relive a little of that magic,” Tilly explains.
I smile. It’s nice hearing about my aunt but also learning a little bit of the family lore that I’d otherwise never know about. It’s not like my parents ever went around talking about their childhoods. As far as they’re concerned, anything in the past doesn’t count—unless it can make them money. Which is probably why they keep me around. My mother has been hounding me for months now. Why haven’t I sold yet? Why haven’t I signed over the place to them? What’s the big hold-up, and why am I spending so much time up here? I haven’t seen them since the funeral, but even though I suggested she come see the place, she still said no. To her, this place is something to inherit, and if she can’t squeeze any money out of it, then she isn’t interested.
I’m a little worried that things might change if she gets wind of how well we’re doing. We’re making a profit again, and it has only taken a few weeks. I don’t want her to show up and try to take the place to the bank now that I’ve turned things around. So for the time being I keep telling her I’m working on things and, when I can, I’ll be selling the place. It’s a lie. I know I have no intention of selling, but it’s easier than trying to explain it to my family. They’d probably ostracize me the way they did my aunt.If you don’t run in the same circles they do, they don’t talk to you.
I refocus on peeling the apples, making sure I don’t accidentally peel the skin off my fingers. I’m not sure that’s something I can do, but I don’t want to find out. Each peeled apple goes into a bowl, which Tilly takes and slices into small cubes. She says the smaller the pieces, the easier the apples bake in the pie. Nothing is worse than biting into a pie and it still being raw.
“Do you make the top look different?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Like the pie lattice?” she asks, confused.
Of course, she knows that’s what it’s called. “Yes.”
“We could. I usually do the standard apple-pie lace. What do you have in mind?”
“I’m not sure, but maybe we could make them all different? It might add to the marketability of the event,” I suggest.
“I think I have cookie cutters here somewhere.” She pauses to look around the kitchen and comes across a bucket of shapes. She looks through them and pulls out ones that are different-sized apples, hearts, and leaves.
“Very festive,” I nod.
“Is there a certain way to do it? I don’t think I’ve ever used a cookie cutter,” I say sheepishly.
“Even to make cookies?” She chuckles.
“Uh, only if you count the ones that come precut that you place on a tray,” I admit.
“Come here.” She waves me over.
Wrapping her arms around my body, she puts her hands on top of mine. She grabs the dough from the fridge she’s cooling and puts the dough I just mixed in the fridge to settle. She has me push the dough with a roller, then with my hands, until it’s perfectly flat. Then she places the cookie cutters along the dough as close as possible, cutting out a variety of shapes.
“We still have to make the inside of the apple pies, but that doesn’t take too long, and it would be good to let these chill a bit in the fridge,” Tilly says.
“Okay.” I nod. She gets a tray, covers it with parchment paper, and then dusts some flour over it.
