The Rake Magazine

I have an apple tree in my yard.

This astonishing discovery came only a short while ago. We've lived here for six years.

This tree sits in the back corner of the yard and has never been pretty or fragrant or useful in any way. Too low for a good climb, too spindly for a rope swing, too close to the swamp for a good sit.

Last fall, I spied a round greenish bauble hanging on a low branch. At first it didn't even register that it was an apple. Close inspection revealed a pink glow beginning of the back side. Glee. I quickly searched the whole tree and found only one other apple, near the top branches. That was it. Two apples.

Despite their rough appearance, a brown spot here and a worm hole there, the bites I took were tart, sweet and crisp, not at all mealy or bitter.

And I thought that was it. The tree was old and having one more fling with two apples. It always seemed weak and frail anyway.

As luck would have it, we built a shed last year. Because the dimensions of the shed grew beyond what we originally planned, we had to cut off one of the limbs of the apple tree. I had already plucked my two apples, I thought it wouldn't kill the whole tree.

To the contrary. As of this week, my tree is draped with promising green orbs. Branch after branch, little apples peek out from under leaves. I'm not an idiot, I understand the principles of pruning, I just thought there was no hope after years and years of nothing.

Now, in this heat that makes stove cooking unbearable, I'm dreaming of apple pie and apple muffins. I can almost smell the crisp autumn air dappled with cinnamon. Brats with apple-onion relish, pork roast with mashed apple sauce, baked apples with cream, all the things I couldn't bear to eat in this heat are living in the back of my mind, patiently.

But I see even further, to the harvest after this one. Because now that she's given me the sign, I can figure out how to best prune her and protect her from worms. Feverishly, I'm online trying to find the best organic means of helping her thrive. And I don't even know her name.

We bought this house from the original owners, the people who built it over 30 years ago. How long was she neglected? How long did her apples go unpicked? Years of nothing, waiting.

Waiting for me.

Heirloom Tomato Names That I Fancy

Green Zebra

Hillbilly

Mortgage Lifter

Mr. Stripey

Cosmonaut Volkov

Isis Candy

Jaune Flamme

Ivory Egg

Stump of the World

Tappy's Finest

Wapsipinicon Peach

Blondkopchen

Bloody Butcher

Dingwall Scotty

Hank

Purple Calabash

The problem with blazing through life with eyes strictly forward, is that often I forget to reconnect to people with whom I've shared good days. Life takes work, and sometimes there doesn't seem to be enough time or energy to reboil old friendships. And then there's the fear that the connection leads only to a past-life that doesn't really jibe with the person in my new apron.

And yet.

This weekend we had a dinner party with some friends, one of whom was an old chum from high school that I had run into at Target. She was the one person I knew back then who was as cynical about our suburban surroundings as I was. Odd that we should both find ourselves in the same area again.

We started out the night with a fresh sake-cucumber cocktail, seemingly innocent and light, a quencher with a kick for a hot day. We snacked on tuna tataki while we chatted, the room splitting itself into male and female groups. Dinner was pan-seared halibut, bamboo rice, and market vegetables. I'd picked up purple beans at the market, thinking they would add a fun splash of color to the plate. They turned green when we cooked them. Huh.

Peeking out from under the halibut on each plate, was one sauteed squash blossom. The halibut was lovely anyway, but when a bite carried a soft, slightly sweet piece of the blossom, it was a new dish entirely. That there was only one blossom on your plate made it that much richer, grasping the flavor of each tiny bite more important.

As always, there was much wine and more laughter. The evening ended with a smart port and espresso crepes with ice cream (brought by the new guests.) My favorite thing about the evening was that there was no need to play out the shared memories of the past. The conversations flowed like the wine and the people we are became more important than the people we were.

Sake Cucumber Punch
1 large seedless cucumber
1/4 c sugar
2 c water
2 T freshly peeled and grated ginger
2 lemons
2 bottles (750 ml) of dry sake

Cut cucumber in half, crosswise. Peel and chop one half, puree in blender. Slice other half into thin rounds, set aside. Add sugar, water, ginger to blender. Squeeze the juice from both lemons into blender, puree until smooth. Pour mix through sieve into pitcher, add one and a half bottles of sake. Stir and add sliced cucumbers. Cover and chill for at least an hour.

four and twenty blackbirds ...

Pie.

Apple pie, lemon pie, pumpkin pie, shoofly pie, humble pie, pot pie, mincemeat pie, sugar pie. Pies have been around since the ancient Egyptians. In older times, the crust was not eaten. Referred to as the "coffyn", the crust was merely a means of holding the warm filling together. The meat pies in England often made use of a protruding leg as a handle. How very smart.

Warm or cold, sweet or savory, political projectile or genital symbol, everybody loves pie.

This Sunday, the Minneapolis chapter of the Slow Food organization is celebrating pie at an "It's All About Pie" event at The Neighborhood House in St. Paul (179 Robie Street East).

Four expert pie makers will share their life of pie:
Anne Dimock, author of Humble Pie: Musing on What Lies Beneath the Crust.
John Michael Lerma, author of Garden Party.
Rose McGee, brilliant playwright, story teller, maker of incredible sweet potato pie and owner of Deep Roots Gourmet Desserts.
Valorie Arrowsmith, a pie maker from Braham, MN where they know a thing or two about pie.

Stories, samples, demonstrations, and life lessons can be experience from 1-4pm. Contact chefron73@hotmail.com or call 612-362-9210 for more info.

Last night I ate at Mission American Kitchen with a bunch of friends/business people. We were an odd lot. One end of the table was heavy with work conversation and Blackberry buzzing, the other end, my end, was thick with laughter, The Macallan, and housemade potato chips.

Our server handled it perfectly.

He worked his way around the table pouring wine and answering questions, throwing in a saucy comment on one side and deftly describing a salad on the other. He was fun and figured us out pretty quickly. When one of our bunch got a phone call and left the table, they whisked his untouched plate away to keep warm in the kitchen. When he didn't return for quite awhile, they said they'd get him a new one when he came back. That seems so obvious, but it happens so rarely.

For all the crappy service that I have to cringe and put up with, it was such a relief to be taken care of with such aplomb.