It is raining.
Rain is pouring down from the sky in bucketloads. I groggily got out of bed, and looked out at the sky. It was gray. I glanced at the calendar “thanksgiving”
I whispered. I walked across my room my feet sinking into the plush carpet. I reached the wood part of the floor it groaned under me. I shut the door.
I ran down the stairs and ate my breakfast gulping down my cereal before it got too soggy.
When the birds stopped chirping at about 12:30 in the afternoon my mom intercepted me and my dad with a twinkle in her eye. “Hi guys, Shane and I are making the turkey but we don’t have enough time to make the apple pie!” she fake pounted.
My dad looked at me. I was bursting with so much emotions mostly excitement. I was like a big bubbling pot of stew. “Well we could always go to fresh-market…” he joked then faltered.
My mom was glaring daggers at him. He wilted under her gaze. “I’m just kidding we’re on the job” he laughed nervously.
“Awesome!” I shouted and skipped into the kitchen my feet going pit pat on the wooden floor. “Chloe, can you go onto the computer and look up apple pie?” My dad shouted over the mayhem of the kitchen.
“Yes sir!” I hollered back playfully. I turned around and typed: simple apple pie recipes. “Dad” I yelled, “We need: 2 granny smith apples peeled and sliced, 1 cup sugar, ½ teaspoon cinnamon, ¼ teaspoon nutmeg, ½ stick unsalted butter cut into bits, and the bottom part of the pie.”
When we were done gathering the ingredients I dashed back to the computer and read aloud, “cut the apples.” This required the whole family[exception of my brother who just ate the extras.] because the apple cutter is very stubborn, and would require a good amount of strength to cut the apples. This was my dad’s job. Then, I would wiggle the apples out of the apple cutter put them in a bowl and slide them to my mom. Meanwhile, my mom would then peel the apples and place them in a big glass bowl. While we each did our tasks we talked to each other and laughed merrily. When we were done cutting the apples it was just me and my dad on the job again. We added the sugar, nutmeg, butter, and cinnamon. Little did I know as we mixed the ingredients together in the bowl, that we were about to come to a terrible conclusion.
Now, we unceremoniously dumped the contents into the pie bottom. “Okay, we need a top… uh Dad, where’s the top?” I asked frantically looking around.
We looked everywhere on the floor, through the bowls, and even the bathroom!
“Chloe, I think we need to buy one let’s go to Acme.” he said glumly. I walked to the mudroom the cold stone against my feet. I put on my shoes grabbed a coat and walked to the car, I was disappointed we worked so hard and were so close to finishing only to realize we had much more ahead of us. Little did I know I was about to spend a whole lot more time in Acme then I had planned.
We got to Acme I stepped out of the car it was drizzling now and the cold was sweeping through my jacket I shivered and hurried after my dad. After about 20 minutes of arguing about which pie top to get we finally settled on a graham cracker one. After, we were in the kitchen and saw the pie and we realized we had a dilemma. I groaned but underneath the disappointment of a perfect pie, there was a spark of happiness for completing the task.
So we put the pie in the oven for 1 hour and waited for the warning to come and it came, “Italy Italy Italy!” our oven sounded. I pounded across the floor my feet making thumping sounds on the wood. As my dad opened the oven the smell of baked apple wafted from the oven settling in the kitchen. My dad set the pie down to cool. I looked at the pie, most people would see a regular apple pie without a top. What I saw was memories with my dad, and a story worth telling.