Mum's Apple Pie, A Mothers' Day Story

We were in a courtyard cafe in the old French town of Chablis, when Mum uttered the words that shocked my youngest sister and me.  We had traveled from Vancouver to Paris, where my sister was living, then driven through the French countryside to the Burgundy region, and turned Eastwards to regions famous for Chardonnay grapes and Chablis wine.

Now, having journeyed half way around the world, and survived a car accident en route, we tripped along narrow cobblestone streets in the late afternoon sun, and discovered a quaint, hidden outdoor cafe.  An enormous Sheepdog lay sprawled in the open doorway of the cafe, leading to the kitchen. Our waitress had to step over the panting dog, to reach our table.

Mum quickly read through the French menu, and requested, "Tarte aux Pommes".  "Mum!" I said, starting to laugh, "Why would you order apple pie, when you can have that at home?"  "I like apple pie" was her simple, honest reply.  Like apple pie?  She loved apple pie!

Mum, at nearly 91 years of age, is still very much alive.  I use the past tense, in saying she loved apple pie, because after a paralyzing stroke more than 30 years ago, she has been on a feeding tube for the past 18 years.  The eldest of ten children, she learned to cook and bake at an early age, and went on to work as a Chef's Assistant in a Northern Quebec mining camp, where she met my Dad. I'm not sure if it was love at first sight, or love at first bite.  Mum made everything from scratch - her own cakes, and pastry, her own marmalade, jams and jellies, her own peach and pear preserves, her own pickles, her own mustard and mayonnaise.  In later years, she even ground her own wheat, to make flour for her weekly bread.

Apple Pie, Apple Crumble, Apple Crisp, Apple Sauce - made from apples grown in our backyard, or the next door neighbour's backyard - these, she served at many a family meal.  I have wonderful memories of the four of us kids, coming home in the dark of Winter, from after school swimming lessons, and being enveloped by the cinnamon and brown sugar fragrance of Apple Brown Betty, fresh out of the oven.

When the waitress - nearly stumbling over the sprawling Sheepdog - brought our selections to the table, Mum's Tarte aux Pommes was a huge disappointment.  It was burned on the bottom!  Black. Mum had it sent back to Chef.  As the waitress stepped over the lazy dog, and made her way into the kitchen, we heard the echos of something clip-clopping on the cobblestones.  We turned toward the kitchen doorway to see a goat, coming out of the kitchen!

It was decades before I could bring myself to sip Chablis.  Over the years, whenever someone is being snobby about French cuisine, I think of that shaggy, panting Sheepdog, and the Billy Goat just a hair away from the kitchen stove.  Mum always had the quiet pride of knowing that her homemade apple pie was superior to the one prepared for her in France, by a real French chef.

Happy Mothers' Day, Mum!

Photos copyright Ruth Adams, Widow's Endorphins Photographic Images Inc.