Christian Educators' Journal

Rhythms of delight

by Denise Frame Harlan

Just before five p.m., my daughter turns on the porch light for me,
so I can take out the compost. I have already served an embarrassingly
early dinner to the children, and I am sneaking up on dessert, too,
homemade applesauce bubbling on the back burner. When the smell is too
delicious to bear, I will serve it up in dessert dishes, not even
whispering that we will eat warm applesauce instead of the traditional
ice cream.

My mom made “stewed apples” once a year, when she
could get a bushel basket of apples for nearly free. But she didn’t
serve them: she pressed them through a cone-shaped sieve with a wooden
tool made for pressing applesauce. Then she would freeze the strained
applesauce in translucent plastic freezer boxes, lining the deep freeze
in the back porch. We carefully used the antique apple peeler prior to
cooking the apples, hanging the long curly peelings in a sunny window
for “pioneer candy,” dried apple peel. Some batches were better than
others. Some applesauce was flavored with “red hots” candy, rendering
it an unnatural pink and a little spicy.

For my “stewed
apples,” a rustic applesauce, I cut three or four pounds of apples a
little smaller than wedges, and drop them, peels and all, into the
pot—the peel gives a lovely color. I use Julia Child’s recipe: juice of
half a lemon, two curls of lemon peel, too, two cloves, a cinnamon
stick. (If you don’t have a lemon, no worries—no one will know except
you. Use just a tiny bit of water to cover the bottom of the pan,
instead. Be bold.) Simmer until bubbly. Once, I threw in a half glass
of shiraz I was drinking, to fabulous effect, the dessert taking on a
deep and mysterious red. “Finish” with a teaspoon of real vanilla
extract and a tablespoon of butter stirred in. Serve with ice cream,
serve with granola, just serve and watch it all disappear. No sugar is
necessary, truly, but if your constituents beg, sprinkle brown sugar on
the top, lightly, or add just a drop of maple syrup. But I bet no one
will ask.

They gobble it up, tonight, without question and then
settle into coloring mandalas, our latest art foray, again not
mentioning that we are not reading the traditional chapters of the
penguin book their Dad so enjoys. We share the watercolor pencils and I
color a very complicated mandala while they take on easier Celtic knot
designs. “Your pictures are always so cool!” my daughter says. “I will
just watch you, mama, I am too tired to color any more,” my son says
dramatically as he leans his head on the table.

The early
darkness saddens me, true, but it has circadian benefits: they drop
into bed at seven-thirty, half an hour later than usual but quite
settled, with no arguments. Somewhere along the line, they brushed
teeth, made beds and changed into pajamas, just as I asked, and I
wonder if it’s because I offered to color alongside them or if it’s
because I filled their bellies with warm food. It is too rare to take
for granted, in any case. I sit at my desk just outside the bedroom
door, satisfied with my solo parent evening, while these two drift off
to sleep.