When I was a child, my parents had a garden, and we harvested a lot of apples almost every year. The apples were kept on the balcony, and their delicate aroma filled every room. It seemed as if even the blankets smelled of apples!
We used to make amber jam from crab apples; and fruit paste from juicy pink apples and then dry it on the windowsill. Sometimes the fruit paste was eaten before it had time to dry.
And of course, no August went by without apple pies and charlottes. Because I had to cut so many apples, my hands would get stained a rusty color that neither baking soda nor citric acid could remove.
We no longer have a garden, but I still remember the days of my "apple" childhood. Now, every August, I buy apples harvested from local gardens. It seems that the tradition of baking a charlotte in August has become rooted in our family forever.
And every time we bake an apple pie, it reminds me of childhood, the joy of simple things, and the transience of time.
