Apples and Pumpkins

A giant bin of Macintosh Apples at Portland Nursery

"As American as the Fourth of July and Mom’s Apple Pie." Whoa there, cowboy! The Fourth of July, I grant you, is American (that’s exactly when it all went south). But apple pie? They can’t appropriate that, can they? It’s not as if Apple Pie is a Latin American banana republic, ripe for a little impromptu annexation. How about Mom’s Pumpkin Pie? That would be fine. Or how about, "As American as the military-industrial complex and Starbuck's Pumpkin Spice Lattés?"

As far as I remember, when we used to hollow out pumpkins in primary school to make spooky lanterns, we summarily disposed of the filling. This was, in retrospect, a bit of a waste. It’s a little like – I don’t know – using the wrappers from after-eights to make a Christmas decoration and throwing away the chocolate coated mint. Without getting all Nigel Slater about it, there is something deliciously and distinctly autumnal about pumpkin pie. It’s both the colour and the texture; the rich, comfortingly dense, burnt-orange transport for the spicy "Christmas-is-coming" cinnamon and ginger scrumminess of it all. Come on America, take the pumpkin pie as your symbol – it’s great and it’s uncontroversially yours. Like baseball and cars that don’t go around corners. Apple Pie, on the other hand, is more like Iraq – we can all see why you might want it, but someone else got there first, and, frankly, it’s a bit of a stretch.

Ethan and I ventured out to Portland Nursery’s apple festival two weekends in a row, our mission (actually, my mission, he just has to go along with it – we’re like Batman and Robin in that respect), to find the perfect combination of American apples necessary to reconstruct an English apple pie without the noble Bramley. I tried about fifty varieties and eventually came up with a combination of Macintosh and Newtown Pippin, with the odd Braeburn thrown in for good luck if you feel like it. Macintosh dissolve like Bramleys but are not nearly so tart, which is where the Newtowns come in, also offering a certain chunkiness; Braeburns are the most appley-apple, so add extra flavour if desired. Core, peel and slice, heat on the stove with an ounce or two of butter, wait about fifteen minutes, add a little sugar if necessary, a little vanilla essence if desired, allow to cool, slap between two layers of pastry, bake and voila.




A selection of photos from Laurelhurst Park in late September

Autumn has always been my favourite season, and this year is no exception; the colours, the chill returned to the air and the comfort of comfort food, every fine day cherished in the knowledge it may be the last for some several months. Our own little pumpkin is four months old, has reduced his demands to one feed per night, holds his head up without support, is taking a lively interest in his environment, loves to be outside and is cooing – actually cooing; something which I had previously thought was only an expression. We love him so much it is ridiculous.


Rachel and the pumpkin. At this point my mother will remark that orange is not his colour.