When I was a kid my Aunt Cal used to make the best apple pie in the world.  A little slice of ecstasy, it had golden flaky crust and tart apple filling laced with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg.  Even then I knew it was a treat I would cherish all my life.  I don’t know what made me happier, though—eating it or watching my Aunt watch her husband as he took his first bite, his eyes sealed in blissful retreat.  In that moment, she was living proof that it was better to give than receive.

          When my Uncle died, Aunt Cal quit baking.  Years later, when I asked her why, the light drained from her gaze.  Noticing her sadness, I told her that every time I had a piece of pie I said a silent prayer that it’d be as good as the pie she used to make.  But it never was.  When I asked her about her recipe she confessed she didn’t have one—it was a pinch of this, a dash of that.  She told me she just knew when it was right.

 Not much later, I happened to meet a guy who loved to bake.  The old me that liked to be taken care of died that day because I didn’t ask this fellow to make me an apple pie but to teach me to bake one instead.

And when I asked specific questions about my mentor’s recipe, he gave me his version of what my Aunt had said years earlier: he just knew when it was right.

So a couple of years ago when the blues settled in over the holidays, I decided to bake apple pies.  I made two on Christmas Eve day: one for a food drive and one for a dinner I was going to attend.  Coring and slicing the apples, the kitchen filled with autumn’s perfume.  In that delirious state, I engaged every pie maker’s crucible—The Dough—that mystical blend of flour, water, salt, and butter which can yield perfection or become your most cursed nemesis.  I started by massaging The Dough with a marble rolling pin I had chilled in the freezer so as not to vex it.  Then I stroked every tear in its fabric, drizzling cool water to mend its tender skin.  And after I larded it with Granny Smith’s finest, I delicately slid it into the oven, leaving it to become itself.

          Later that evening as I hoisted my fork to my mouth, I stopped.  I closed my eyes and thought of those who’d received the pie I gave for the food drive.  The scent of the apples eased my eyes open; I saw the glow on my friends’ faces as they ate my pie.  And I understood what every great baker must know—that the perfect recipe for ecstasy is a dash of giving, a pinch of receiving, with a liberal sprinkling of observing.  Don’t ask me how I know—it just feels right.