By Audrey Xu, Class of 2028, Winner of “The Roar”‘s Middle School Fall Writing Contest!
Granny Smith stands at the counter, shaving the skin off apples harvested fresh from our garden. She’s wearing a gingham apron, which complements my checkered dress. I sit on a wooden stool behind her, watching the speckled peels slowly descend, curving around and around like a golden snake.
Baking apple pie is Granny’s fall tradition. Every autumn, she plucks the apples from an old and withered tree behind our house. The tree looks so ancient that it’s a wonder that it can still bear fruit. Strangely, in summer and spring, the branches are bare, with no leaves or flowers growing on them. When fall rolls in, buds and soft green leaves spring into action, like a fast-forward video. By the middle of November, apples hang ripe and heavy from the branches. In winter, the leaves wither into orange shells and fall to the ground.
Granny slices the apples into cubes, each one sweet as sugar. She sweeps them into a glass bowl and mashes them into paste. Next, she dumps a jar full of spices into the mixture. Granny blends the sauce and spoons it into a pie crust, which she baked yesterday. Bam! The oven door closes on the pie. Granny sets the timer and fiddles around with the knobs that control the settings. We wait. After the timer goes off, Granny sets the pie out to cool on the windowsill. Then she slices the pie, which releases cloudlike steam into the frigid autumn air. Granny hands me a piece of pie on a plate, and I gulp it down hungrily.
“Now it’s your turn to bake a pie,” Granny says as the last mouthful goes down my throat.
“What?” I ask, stunned. “I don’t know how to make pie!”
“Then it’s time for you to learn,” Granny says. “I need two pies, anyway, and you should learn the recipe.”
I grumble excuses about homework and free time, but Granny shakes her head sternly. I sigh and submit to her will. Step by step, Granny leads me through the recipe. She cautions me to watch my fingers as I lift the heavy knife up and down. She shows me exactly which measurements to use for the spices. When I place the pie into the oven, she points out which dials I need to turn. After I finish, Granny beams at me approvingly. Her smile dissolves the last fragments of bitterness I had about cooking the pie.
Later that night, I am sitting next to Granny on the plush couch in the living room. The light from the lamp in the corner shines brightly. It feels very pleasant and warm in here. The fireside crackles cheerily, contrasting sharply with the blue-black shadows of the world beyond our window panes. Outside, Mother Nature is kicking up a storm. Great torrents of rain slash through the sky and turn the dirt into mud. Wind howls through the trees. Granny’s knitting needles go clickety-clack. I am drifting off to sleep when Granny sits up with a start.
“What day is it, again?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” I yawn.
Granny stands up, discarding her needles on the couch. She heads to the kitchen, where the pies nestle cozily in the oven. She grabs the sliced pies in both hands and carries them to the unusually large glass window in the living room. It almost touches the walls and ceiling. Granny calls for me to open the window for her.
“But it’s raining,” I say confusedly.
“That’s no matter.” Granny dismisses my concern with a wave of her hand.
I slide the window up. Immediately, rain pours into the house and forms puddles on the wooden floor.
“Granny, what are you doing?” I ask her as she places the pies on the windowsill.
“Our family is coming soon,” she says, ignoring my question. “Go upstairs and make yourself presentable.”
I raise my eyebrows. Granny is definitely going crazy. All of our relatives passed away in an earthquake when I was a baby. But I love her, so I humor her by brushing my hair. When I come downstairs, something is different. It’s still raining outside, but the water isn’t gushing into our house anymore. The noise of the wind has also dropped, as though someone has turned down the volume. I dash down the last few steps and run to Granny. My mouth drops open. Outside, huddled around the window, are at least twenty ghosts. Some are dressed in formal wear, and some wear casual T-shirts and shorts. Most of them hold plates of pie, and all of them smile warmly at me. For the first time in my life, I feel complete and whole. I grin widely back at them.
“Help me pass out the pie,” Granny orders me, her face transformed by happiness.
“Is this-” I start to ask, but I already know the answer deep in my heart.
“Yes,” Granny says. “This is your family.”
The Roar 