Her mother`s apple crisp recipe is an enduring reminder

Her mother's apple crisp recipe is an enduring reminder
of childhood and family traditions byLisaEvantroronto
he spicyscent of cinnamon and nutmeg blended
with the sweet aroma of apples emanated from
my Mexican oven. Heat enveloped the room,
steaming up the closed windows, but I barely
noticed. I'd trapped the heat, along with the smell of
my childhood, inside. Living in Mexico, thousands
of miles away from my family, it was that smell that
connected me to my Canadian home and I was feeling
slightly homesick.
Many childhood memories are wrapped up in this
aroma. On that particular day in Chiapas, Mexico, the
image of my mother, bent at the hip, lifting the steam-
ing dish out of the oven crystallized in my mind. A
seven-year-old me was kneeling on the seat beside
the kitchen table, too excited to sit with mybutt on the
chair and still crunching on the leftover apple peel
we'd diligently removed an hour earlier, my favourite
part of home cooking.
As my mother gingerly laid the dish on top of the
stove to cool, the sweet aroma wafted out from the
oven in one fell swoop, titillating our noses. "Mmm,
smells good," cooed my mother, as she inspected the
bottom of the dish, making sure the apples were thoroughly cooked. I watched the apples bubbling through
the glass bottom, taunting me. "Wait until it cools," my
58
Our Canada
ocroBER / NovEMBER 2013
mother wamed, knowing I couldn't wait to dive in.
My mother's apple crisp was my favourite dish
growing up, and is still my go-to dessert. Every Christmas and Thanksgivingwas accompanied bythis sweet
treat, topped with a hearty serving of vanilla or butterscotch ice cream. The crisp oats and hot, steaming
apples melted the cold ice cream on contact, creating
a smooth, milky substance that floated around the bottom of the bowl. While she's changed her recipe over
the years, adding cranberries, raisins and walnutsexperimenting with food combinations-the original
recipe is still my favourite.
I've carried the recipe to every home I've had since
leaving my parents' humble abode. As a university student in London, Ont., I became knoltm as the political
science department's baker, bringing the dish of sweet
baked apples to group study sessions and potluck parties. While living in a country where desserts are an
uncommon accompaniment to a meal, my mom's ap-
ple crisp recipe remained stuck to my refrigerator, a
constant reminder of home.
On that particular day, I'd made the dish to share
with my new family. Upon my arrival in Chiapas, where
I worked as a writer and English teacher for more than
two years, I fell seamlessly into the warm embrace of a
local family. They had spent the first six months of my
stay there providing me with delicious Mexican meals,
comforting me during mybouts of illness, teaching me
how to hand-wash my clothes, how to shop at the
open market and lifting me up when I felt homesick. It
was my tum to give something back-a small piece of
down the table at Diego, a seven-year-old boywho I'd
grown close to in my time there. His plate was still full.
He pushed the apple mixture into a comer of the plate
with his fork and looked up at me with apologetic eyes.
I knew he didn't like it but was too shy, and too polite,
to tell me. He passed the dish to his mother and left the
Canada-and I could think of nothing better than my
mom's apple crisp to introduce them to my country.
As I scooped the warrn apples onto dishes and
table to playwith his cousins.
I would be lying if I didn't say I felt disappointed. I'd
wanted to share the best of my country with my new
handed them around the table, I was met with curious
looks. "What is this?" asked my house mother, poking
at the dish with her fork. I fielded a barrage of questions: "ls this apple?" "Apples for dessert?" "What s the
brown stuff on top?" "This is from Canada, yes?"
"Yes, this is a Canadian dessert made with apples
and oats. W it," I said, laughing as the 78-year-old
aunt tentatively raised the fork to her mouth, raising it
to her nose to take a whiff before allowing the apples
to rnelt on her tongue.
"Oh, it's good," she exclaimed; the surprise in her
voice made me laugh. The others followed suit and
within minutes their plates were scraped cleaned. TWo
asked for more and helped themselves to the remaining apple crisp.
Thrilled that the dish was well-received, I glanced
family.
I had dreams my own future children would
someday get to experience the same smells and tastes
I associated with my childhood home.
The image of my own son or daughter kneeling on
the kitchen chair crunching on an apple peel was fixed
in my head, a dream that had yet to come true, but I
somehow had imagined young Diego would want to
practice the tradition with me.
Then I realized, for a child who has never seen snow
who has never curled up next to a buming fireplace or
cradled a cup of hot chocolate in his freezing hands
and who has never seen leaves change colour, Canada
would be an acquired taste. He loved the maple-flavoured sugar cookies and the Laura Secord chocolates
I'd brought back on my last trip, so perhaps a future
love for apple crisp wasn't too far away.
I
59