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Poem
It was a long summer and the bees did their job,
For the trees were filled with apples, hanging like little knobs.
 
Oh, those orbs, they looked so delicious and red,
I gathered so many, I had to put the bushels in the shed.

They would be the source of a season of treats,
And anyone who wanted, could have their fill of the eats.

Cakes were baked, Crisps were done too,
I even tried my hand at fresh applesauce, before the season was through.

I did apple salads and baked apples as well,
But it was the pies that got adulation, so of those I will tell.

Paring and slicing in an expedient way,
The apples were ready, shortly before midday.

Then with a mixture of flour, sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg,
I make them into a filling, that would even make a king beg.

I've tried so many kinds of pastry to fill,
From filo and puff, to rolled out traditional.

And I have to say whilst patting myself on the back,
They all taste great, flavor they do not lack.

The traditional pie is the one most people enjoy,
I have tried to improve on it, since I was a boy.

I learned how to make it at Mom's left hand,
Roll out the crust, the filling never canned.

Pats of butter on top before you cover,
Make for a pie that will be loved world over.

Then to seal the pie, brush it with melted butter, and cut some slits,
Pop it in the oven, and just wait for it.

The tantalizing aromas just make me wild,
Just as they did, when I was a child.

The moment the pie comes out I can see,
That another triumph has been made perfectly.

The dome is golden, the apples are done,
Now, only to wait for it to cool, before we can enjoy some.

Some like it ala mode...with ice cream you know,
But I'm a plain Jane, and for me it's not the right combo.

So I just have a slice that's warm on the plate,
And will my appetite, begin to sate.

It is one of my favorite desserts,
Of this I will always my willingness assert.

The only thing that troubles me,
Is all the bushels left to peel, when I have time free.

But I will do them, and into the freezer they are thrust,
Waiting for me to them into another pie, as so often I must.
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