I was talking to my mom yesterday evening. Not literally of course, as she’s been gone since July of 2004. Not even out loud because my husband and my dog were watching football nearby and the Lions were winning.
No, I was talking to my mom because I was making an apple pie with apples I’d gotten from an orchard a couple of towns west of here. It was a last minute decision to run over to Spicers Orchards to get old fashioned baking apples, on a beautiful, crisp Sunday afternoon.
My family used to go to Spicers when we were kids, in the 60s and 70s. Back then it was a one building small place with acres of apple, pear and cherry trees. I have lots of good memories of all of us there.
But it’s not small anymore.
When I arrived, late in the day, I noticed right away all the additional parking. Most of which was filled with cars. An entire field that used to be, well, a field, was parked full of cars. Not to mention the regular lot next to the building that houses the bakery and picked fruit and jelly and stuff. And another full lot across the street.
Something told me Spicers is not the same anymore.
I hadn’t worn a coat, assuming I’d park in the lot and buzz into the store, grab some apples and go. Apparently it wasn’t going to happen like that. I tromped up and down the hills and finally made it over to the store.
For the weekend (I assume just the weekend) they had moved the sale of donuts outside and the line, double wide, stretched from the back of the building, where the tables holding the donuts were, to the winery on the other side of the huge parking lot. There seemed to be nothing left of the small local orchard I remembered. It just wasn’t the same.
Inside, where apples and cider and fudge and ice cream and jelly and cookies and bread were being sold, the line went from the cash registers (now 4 instead of 1) to the back of the store. The place was packed with people.
My first instinct was to turn and flee.
But I was there, so I found some courtland baking apples and a half gallon of cider and I got in line, trying not to feel claustrophobic as people pushed by, their arms laden with goodies. I have to say those cashiers were expedient, and I was paying and back on my way walking up and down the hills to the distant car before I could consider buying a cookie.
So I was telling mom all of this while I was peeling and slicing apples, as I was mixing and rolling the pie dough. It’s not the same, I told her, just not the same.
Then, with my head in the pantry, grabbing some sugar, I had a flashback to a pie she used to make. We called it cheesecake but it obviously wasn’t. There was cream cheese and maybe lemon pudding, in a graham cracker crust. For half an instant, probably because I’d been talking to her about Spicers, I thought I’d just ask her what was in that pie.
It’s still a gut punch, even after nineteen years, when I realize all over again that I can’t ask her anything anymore. It’s not the same, mom, just not the same.
But the apple pie? It pretty much looks the same as the apple pies mom used to make for us decades ago. Mine isn’t as pretty as hers were, but I’m betting it tastes the same.
Some things, regardless of commercialism, never change.
