Kitchen
Apple pie and the apple man
Every autumn a ute pulls up at the back door with a dozen crates of apples, and every autumn Heather says the same thing. Here's the story of the apple pie.
The apple man arrives at eight in the morning, which is early for him, because he's been up since four with the pickers. He parks the ute across the lane, unloads the crates by hand and refuses a cup of tea until Heather has tasted at least three apples. It's a ritual, and neither of them would dream of skipping it.
The apples
A firm, tart variety for the filling and a sweeter one for the top layer, so the pie holds together and doesn't collapse into sauce. They're picked from a family orchard a short drive away, and they arrive with leaves still stuck to a few of them, which Heather considers a good sign.
The pastry
Short, buttery and made by hand, rolled thin enough to crackle and thick enough to hold. Heather chills it for an hour, then bakes the pie low and slow until the top turns the colour of old gold. She won't hurry it, and she won't let anyone else hurry it either.
The cream
A jug of cold cream goes beside every slice, poured from a pitcher at the table. Some guests pour it over, some dip, a few drink what's left. It comes from a dairy a few kilometres away, and Heather knows the cows' names, or claims she does.
When it's on
Apple pie is on the menu all year, but it's at its best in the weeks after the harvest, when the apples are fresh and the evenings turn cool. If it's your first visit, order a slice. If it's your fiftieth, order two, and ask for the corner piece.
The leftover crusts
Nothing's wasted. Offcuts of pastry are baked with cinnamon sugar and handed out to the kitchen at the end of service, and the apple peelings go into a pot with a little honey to make a syrup for the morning's porridge. Heather says the best part of a pie is often the bit you weren't supposed to eat.