Once the apples were in her cart, Sarah trundled to the baking aisle, snagging some butter on the way. She threw a bag of flour, some sugar, and cinnamon into her cart. She’d never made pie on her own. The idea of attempting it was both scary and kind of thrilling, too. Sarah had helped her mom make it when she was young, standing on a chair so she could reach the countertop. Her mom didn’t cook often. But every once in a while, she’d take Sarah’s hand and they’d venture into the kitchen, where their elderly cook, Berta, reigned supreme.

“You got the cooking bug again, ma’am?” Berta would say, her face a wreath of smiles.

“I sure do,” Sarah’s mom would say, opening a drawer and tying an apron around her waist.

“Me too,” Sarah would say, and her mom would smile as she tied another apron around Sarah’s waist and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Berta would “leave them to it.” By the time they finished baking, the kitchen would be filled with the cozy smells of loving goodness. Sometimes it would be peanut butter cookies, sometimes a raspberry trifle, and every once in a while . . . pie! Didn’t matter what kind. Dad loved them all. Granted, the desserts created during their kitchen forays never looked as nice as Berta’s offerings. A little charring or a soggy crust was not unusual, but Sarah, her mom, and her dad would dig in with gusto, and her dad would always declare that he could taste the love embedded in the creation. Over the years, they had attempted chocolate cream pie, lemon meringue, peach, and apple. Sarah wasn’t certain what all went into apple pie. Hopefully, she had gotten the majority of the ingredients. Would have to Google a recipe when she returned to the house and had access to a computer.