Everyone in my house is a fan of apples. Come fall, everybody wants apple cider, apple sauce, and fried apples.
It makes my heart happy. Apples remind me of Appalachia.
When I was little, Papaw used to come home with bushels of apples every fall for Mamaw to put up.
That’s how I learned to use a knife. On the back porch, we’d sit and peel apples.
Thinking about it, I can see Papaw in his chair with his pocket knife and a bowl of peeled apples at his feet. Mamaw in hers with her little old paring knife. I swear that knife was always in her hand.
Mamaw taught me to peel an apple in one long piece and toss the peel over my shoulder. She said the peel would tell me the initial of the person I would marry.
Every time I stand at the kitchen counter to peel apples, I think about that. I’ve often wondered if any of those apple peels ever came up with a “B.” If they did, I don’t remember it.
I do remember Mamaw’s homemade apple butter, though. And fried apples. She made the BEST southern fried apples.
When I started learning to cook, I asked her: How do you make fried apples, Mamaw?
She replied: You peel and slice up your apples. Get a little pat of butter, and put it in the pan with your apple slices. Cover your apples in sugar and add a little cinnamon. Then boil until your apples are soft.
I’ve been making fried apples that way for years. They don’t turn out the same every time, but they’re always good.
