Skip to Recipe

Rene Descartes held the bible in his hands the day he became the first quantum physicist. Though he would never live to know this truth – if he ever lived at all – he sat everyday underneath the shadow of the expatriated French parasol that obscured his mind and body – if mind and body proved to be connected at all – and ate a fallen apple as an homage to a distant future he would never know.

He wasn’t born to be a baker, nor was I born to endure the bangs that curtained his forehead like an ill begotten contemporary adaptation of Aphra Behn (if there’s any other kind). Unfortunately, we must persist in a world where apples are thrust upon us. What you choose to do with the gravity of it all defines your over-edited Wiki page no one bothers to read. Nothing in this world is promised. Death is yearned for and taxes are inevitable, but ultimately we stand alone with nothing but a trail of unfulfilled dreams, a pocket of loose change, and a curiously Swedish case of pneumonia that forces an already uncomfortable St. Peter to adjust his N95.

I don’t mean to get a divorce. In fact, I don’t mean to wed at all. Unlike Rene, the only bastard children I have sit unalphabetized near my sock drawer (a joke I am both too tired and too wired to explain to anyone residing outside of [REDACTED]). The only veins my blood runs through are my own, and those numbers have recently and significantly diminished. I am burdened by the weight of my body against the weightlessness of the spheres. I own no orchard. My peach tree has grown dry. I am perpetually in motion. I am constantly at rest. 

As children, we look at the world with acceptance; the sun goes down, fishes swim, and the curiously old cuckoo clock with painted birds and carved flowers chimes half an hour late. The sun goes down, fishes swim, and the spider in the corner weaves a web keeping an eye on the aging broom that’s killed generations of its predecessors. “This will all make sense when I’m older,” I think, therefore I am certain that I know little because I am little. I go to sleep, the spider is there. I scream. At least that hasn’t changed.   

What you’ll need:

2 (9″) pie crusts

7 large Granny Smith apples (peeled, cored and sliced into ½ inch slices)

½ cup granulated sugar

½ cup light brown sugar (loosely packed)

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

⅛ teaspoon ground nutmeg

1 tablespoon lemon juice (plus the zest of half of a lemon)

1 large egg (lightly beaten in a small bowl for egg wash)

2 tablespoons sanding sugar (optional)

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat the oven to 400°F (204°C).
2. In a large bowl, combine the sliced apples, granulated sugar, light brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, and lemon juice and lemon zest; toss to coat evenly.
3. Spoon the apple filling over the bottom crust and discard juices at the bottom of the bowl. Roll out the second disc of pie crust until it is ⅛” thick and lay it over the apple filling.
4. Use a sharp knife to trim the dough along the outside edge of the pie plate. Lift the edges where the two pie crust meet, gently press to seal and fold them under. Rotate the pie plate and repeat this process until edges are neatly tucked under themselves. Cut 4 slits in the top of the dough to allow steam to vent. Place the pie on a baking sheet.
5. Brush the surface of the pie crust with the egg wash and sprinkle with sanding sugar. Cover the edges with a pie shield or a strip of foil to keep them from over browning during the first 25 minutes.
6. Bake at 400°F (204°C) for 25 minutes. Carefully remove the pie shield, turn the oven down to 375° and continue to bake for an additional 30-35 minutes or until the top is golden brown and the juices are bubbly. Cool at room temperature for at least 3 hours.

Enjoy!