Looking out my Backdoor: The world is my apple

Or, one might say, this week, apples are my world.

Every year I put a lot of thought into my gift giving for Christmas. Grandchildren are easy. Gift certificates. They are of the age where money is the better choice. Gold, right? For the babies, my grandchildren, my daughter handles that chore for me. She knows best what they want, need and enjoy.

The hard part is for us few who are here this holiday season in Gringolandia. We are old. We already have everything we want. If I never see another scented soap, special candle, or crocheted bookmark, I will be a happy woman. That’s me. I speak for myself only. Maybe for others, those items would satisfy their hearts’ desires.

My first thought was to make round tuits. OK, so maybe I’m stuck in eight-year-old humor, but I think it would be fun to “get a round tuit,” artfully custom made, of course.

However, we are a multi-cultural community and I’m not sure the humor would translate.

So, as often, the solution to my quandary came down to something we all like and will use, with the added benefit that I enjoy making and baking … apple pies.

A trip to the market for extra flour, sugar, butter and a half-bushel of apples, on with my apron, and I’m ready to roll. Roll dough, that is.

Apples. This is not apple-growing country. Oh, for the crab apple tree that used to grow in the corner of the pig yard on our farm on the Milk River. Those apples took a lot of work, but fruit of any kind was precious in those days. Anybody who messes with chokecherries and huckleberries knows what I mean. Those crab apples made the best jelly and apple pies of any apple ever. Tart and juicy.

Trial and error led me to the ugly apples. They are grown in Mexico. They are not pretty. They are not always uniform. Look a little warty. But they are tasty and make a good pie. (Other apples are shipped in and the flavor is lost in refrigerated trucks. My opinion.) Most of us gringos call them, you know, those ugly apples. So ugly apples it is.

While peeling applies, rolling out the dough, I like to think I am pouring love into my pies along with sugar and spices and everything nices.

Tomorrow is delivery day and I have one more pie to bake. This one is for my own self. I get gifted too.

May you all have a most wonderful Christmas, whatever your beliefs, no matter how you celebrate, celebrate life and love.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].