Fresh Apple Pie

Stop! This story is Part 2 of my group's fantastic Thanksgiving "With a Twist" project, so please catch up with the beginning before continuing any further; thank you!

Part 1: by Duskshadows

The following fiction is a reflective piece on gratitude and adjustment during the hectic Holiday season. Our protagonist, Joshua Killian, has just begun to feel the effects of a mystical curse. Will he recover, or will everything precious to him be lost? Only one way to find out!

It's funny the things you remember when panicking. For me, it's working in my grandmother's kitchen. I can see it now, me young and carefree, sitting at the dining room table, taking in the heavenly aroma of her baking. Everything from the stuffy Florida summers, picking Honeysuckle off the bushes for jam, and the unpolluted night sky filled with thousands of stars reminded me of how much I loved her. Sometimes, she would let me help prepare my favorite dessert: Triple-Apple Pie. This dish was famous amongst the neighbors during holiday dinners or anniversaries, so it needed special attention. I was no pro chef, mind you, but I enjoyed helping Granny Eden out with baking. It's one of the things I miss during this time of the year.

We would venture out into the eighteen acres of land she and Grampy George cultivated together to harvest from their orchard. They grew three different kinds of apples: Red Delicious, Granny Smith, and Golden Delicious, for variety's sake. The recipe called for roughly one of each, so we had plenty to go around. They grew apples, oranges, and pears out there, for more than thirty years. Come fall, they would become centerpieces in our sizable Thanksgiving dinner.

Next, the fruits of our labor would be hauled back to the farmhouse, cleaned, peeled, and cut into thick slices. Granny made the pie crust from scratch, poking small fork holes into it as she went along. On the other hand, I would man the saucepan filled with brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla extract, and allspice. All of the slices were tenderly swimming in a pool of sweet and sticky, the gentle caress of fragrances hitting my nostrils, and the inevitable masterpiece we were about to enjoy was all I cared about back then, unlike my current reality. These days, I strive for absolute perfection in all aspects of my life. My house, career, and marriage needed to be perfect. No exceptions.

And now, the only thing I can think about is this stupid curse! This junk has to be some psychosomatic thing, a mind trick or hypnosis. There's no way that a sentence can deactivate my senses one by one, or is there? Am I ignorant of some mystical power outside my realm of understanding, or have I drank too much whiskey to think cognitively? Probably the latter, to be honest. Okay, think Josh, think. It won't do any good to get worked up, right? Right. Maybe I should focus on the food instead. Yeah, that works. I close my eyes and take in the hearty aroma coming from my loving wife’s cooking.

Bethany was an excellent chef, especially during the holidays. She has the kitchen engulfed in an array of delicious odors. Sweet, salty honey glazed ham with pineapples and maraschino cherries on top is slowly roasting in the oven. I never liked turkey that much, so ham was our go-to entree of choice. Warm, buttery mashed potatoes with black pepper and garlic salt were finished, piled high in a porcelain serving dish, waiting to be eaten. To be frank, I had every intention of consuming half my body weight in those potatoes; guests be damned. Instead of store-bought dinner rolls, Bethany made sourdough buns covered in a rich, buttery sauce. They were on a cooling rack above the stove. A recipe passed down for the last three generate and my personal favorite. The finale always floored me, a duplicate/tribute to my Granny’s pie. It would always come out last, after everything else was finished. I salivate just thinking about it.

“Honey, the pie is ready for a quick pre-taste before going in the oven.” She called to me from my office.

I practically ran to the kitchen, took the teaspoon of filling from her hand, and swallowed it. Still no flavor, dammit!

“It’s awesome, dear.” I moaned, faking it for her happiness.

“Great, “ She said, laying the dough strips across the top. “How does it smell?”

I reluctantly sniffed the pie, only to find myself repulsed. It didn't smell sweet, but bitter like lemon juice. She added it instead of vanilla extract!

I gagged before answering, “Awful! What did you do to Granny’s pie!?”

Bethany teared up.

Suddenly, the scent was gone. I couldn't smell anything!

Part 3 by Danielle Jaycox.