Wednesday, February 22

Rum Apple Tart

As a child we used to take frequent trips to the country where my extended family lived.  My aunt and uncle owned an apple orchard, and as soon as the car pulled into their long dirt driveway my brother and I would run out into the trees, without even so much as a "Hello!" to my aunt who was waiting at the front door.  I use to love to skip between the rows of trees, imagining I was Dorothy on the yellow brick road - and there was always a dog around to play the part of Toto.

In the spring, when the branches were covered in blossoms and the orchard smelled fresh and new, we'd forage for the tender, wild asparagus that grew in the shade.  In summer, when the trees baked in the hot sun and the grass turned golden and crunched beneath our feet, we'd pick up fallen apples from off the ground and toss them at one another, pretending the sneaky trees had come to life and were throwing them at us like they did in the movie.

We'd imagine the trees had faces, tracing our fingers over eyes and noses hidden in the bark.  This one is friendly, we declared, he's smiling.  This one not so much.  Look at that scowl!  Children can find faces in almost anything.