Why rush, rush, rush forward when the now we're living through is worth holding on to?
I’m trying to hang on to autumn.
It’s November now and the days are short and the air crisp. Mostly the leaves are off the trees, carpeting lawns, lining gutters, crunching under feet on sidewalks and paths routinely taken. Occasionally, you can hear leaf blowers humming in the distance. Halloween is over and Thanksgiving on the horizon. Pumpkins are still in the farm stands, although the jack-o-lantern size gourds have disappeared, replaced by little ones for filling or turning into pie.
So far this fall, it’s been warm and dry. People on the news keep making jokes about summer in November, and friends on Facebook have declared this “the Best. Autumn. Ever.” It has been exceptionally nice, which is not unusual for Colorado, although it is also not unusual for tree-terrorizing snowstorms in September which batter the branches and leach color from the leaves. Last year autumn burned and the sky was eerily orange and the air heavy with smoke. In comparison, this season seems a gift.
But last week, there was snow on the mountains.
In Alaska, they call that first snow “termination dust” because it allegedly signifies the end of tourist season. In Colorado, they call it “much-needed moisture” and “gone tomorrow.” This week, the meteorologists up and down the dial have predicted snow about every third day, in the high country they say but probably not along the Front Range or in the cities or on the plains.
I feel Christmas floating in on those snowflakes.
Soft and silent and set to pile up.
It’s started here already.
Today at the grocery store, they were selling things like Christmas Ale and peppermint bark and pine trees.
This past weekend, the city turned on the downtown holiday lights. They’re simple strings of white lights, filling the trees that grace the medians and walkways in Fort Collins historic shopping district with magic and wishes, lining the buildings, competing with the traffic lights and taillights. They turn downtown into a fairyland, and everyone loves them. There’s no denying their beauty, but there’s also no denying that the sweet illumination heralds a holiday rushing.
Although I too love them, I am not ready, mentally or emotionally, for turning this page.
The other day, I stood in line at the post office to mail a box of Christmas goodies to family in Venezuela, thinking as I did: How can it be this time already? It’s not that I resent the shopping and the packing and the sending. I don’t. I love those beautiful curly-headed children (and their parents, maybe especially their parents) and think of them always, wish for them a life of abundance and connection and joy, mourn the distance and the shared time that doesn’t happen. But still I thought, standing in that post office lobby, my arms filled with boxes marked for faraway places: How much of today do we lose living in the future? Why is it so hard to hold on to now?
No doubt Christmas will come. And snow. And the long dark days of winter.
But now, right now, the sky is still blue and the sun is still blinding on its ever-earlier descent behind the mountains. Leaves skitter across the sidewalks in a windy race to freedom and, in the wake of rushing vehicles, they rise up in an autumn dance.
And the world still smells like apples.
This, by all accounts, has been an exceptional year for apples in Northern Colorado. They weigh down the branches of trees and litter the gutters and fill the bellies of squirrels and errant dogs. Friends have come to the door with bags overflowing. I don’t remember another year of such largesse.
I drive down the road to the post office frequently and, around a curve in a little enclave of rural homes, there’s a yard with a tree heavy with green apples. You can see the fruit from the road. Even as most fruit has already been harvested, that tree has been conspicuously undisturbed. Several times in the past few weeks I’ve said, “Those people are going to lose their apples if they don’t get them picked.” Or, “The forecast says the temperatures are going to drop; they better get those apple picked.” And even, “I guess the squirrels will get them if they don’t get those apples picked.”
But every day, throughout this lingering autumn, the apples hung on.
Then, on my way home from the post office on Monday, I saw a little old woman picking apples from that front-yard tree. (And by little old woman I mean she looked small as I zoomed past in my car and she was dressed appropriately for the weather.) She was on a ladder, reaching for a pretty plump treat while her husband held the ladder still. (I assume it was her husband but, of course, he could have been her son or her neighbor or her illicit lover. Insert your own story here.)
I’m not sure why, but my heart thrilled at the sight.
I love that lady for procrastinating, for holding out, for hanging on to the last lovely, apple-scented days of autumn.
I hope she makes a pie.
The Pie
Apple Snickerdoodle
What seems more like fall than an apple for the teacher and cookies for the kiddies when they get home from school? I don’t actually ever remember bringing an apple to any of my teachers, but my mother used to make cookies for us to snack on after school. It is one of the great memories of my childhood.
In my quest to hang on to all things autumn, I stumbled across this delicious apple pie recipe. Of course, all apple pie is delicious, but this one — Snickerdoodle Apple Pie — gives a nostalgic twist to the standard dessert and resurrects those happy early days. It has a crust and crumble that resemble a Snickerdoodle Cookie, all cinnamon and butter and tangy apple cider. And the tart apples speak with just enough authority to cut through the sweetness. I used Granny Smith apples, but the fruit your neighbor shares from his backyard tree would be just as delicious.
It’s a pie; it’s a cookie. It’s a fun treat for hungry students home from school, a yummy dessert for the whole crew after a family dinner or a delicious before-bed snack during the 10 o’clock news.
The Recipe
Crust
2½ cups all-purpose flour
6 tablespoons white sugar, divided
2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, divided
1½ teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
¾ cup unsalted butter, melted
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
1 tablespoon water
Filling
5 Granny Smith or other tart apples,
peeled, cored and sliced
½ cup white sugar or ½ cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons flour
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon salt
Preheat oven to 425 degrees, rack in the bottom third of the oven.
Whisk 2½ cups flour, 2 tablespoons sugar, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1½ teaspoon salt and 1 teaspoon cream of tartar in a large bowl.
Drizzle in melted butter. Stir crust mixture until just combined and crumbly.
Transfer 1½ cups of crust mixture into a separate bowl; add remaining ¼ cup sugar and 1 teaspoon cinnamon. Knead with fingertips until well combined but still crumbly. Cover with plastic wrap and place in the freezer while working on the rest of the pie.
Pour vinegar and water into the remaining crust mixture; mix to form a dough. Gather dough into a ball and transfer to a lightly-floured surface and knead until smooth. Press dough onto the bottom and sides of a 9-inch pie plate. (You can roll out dough with a rolling pin, at least to give it a start, but it will likely need to be finished by stretching and pressing it while it is in the pie plate.) Crimp edges with the tines of a lightly floured fork.
Freeze.
Toss apple slices, ½ cup sugar (either white sugar or brown sugar is fine, but the brown sugar will give the filling a slightly richer taste), 3 tablespoons flour, 1 teaspoon cinnamon and ¼ teaspoon salt in a large bowl. Gently mix until the apples are fully coated. Pour over bottom crust and cover with the crumb topping.
Bake on the bottom rack of the preheated oven for about 20 minutes.
Reduce temperature to 350 degrees. Turn pie and continue baking for about 50 minutes, covering crust with aluminum foil or a pie shield halfway through baking if the top gets too dark.
Cool on wire rack before slicing, about 1 hour.
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