Red apples from an old wicker basket
Slightly bruised and winter burned
Woodstove heating up a country kitchen
As the pies already baking are gently turned
Lots of cinnamon and sugar
Golden pie crusts made from scratch
The smells of pies fresh from the oven
As she again puts in another batch
She smiles down at her little helper
And says she needs the twinkle in his eye
Oh sweet child that’s my secret ingredient
In your old Gram’s bestest apple pie
When done Gram takes the left-over pastry
Gives a smile and wink to her favorite boy
Makes for him some special apple tarts
Just to see his little eyes light up with joy…
Cherrypie...
PS, No Cherries in Season either, MEH!
Sheila
Sandie Angel :o)
Regis
Bobbi
Love ya face cuz XOXOXO, Rose
Alive with life, this poem had me in the kitchen, visualising myself there, as I listened to a precious fairy tale!
Thank you for this bliss!!
Love, Suzie :-D
~~~ I bet you were Gram's favourite boy ~~~~ :-D
Larry
Lisa
Hugs,
Christine
She later told us she hated Shoo-Fly-Pie, but on that day, she loathed in all its flavor!
Your poem strikes the warmth of home!
Love and Peace~
Kimmy~
Be always safe,
Karen
Love,
Linda
Georg
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Tx., Karen Lynn. :P *drooling hungrily* LOL
stay safe and well...Hugssss
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
You've got my mouth watering now, remembering back to those wondrous old days. No one bakes as good as Grandma did, and I've never been able to find any bakery, anywhere in the world, that even comes close.