Renee Noel, Author

New England, Apple Pie, and Sort of New Neighbors

It was just a pie. But it kind of turned into a dilemma.

Since moving to New England ten years ago, I’ve delighted in the tradition of apple picking. Think apple orchards, surrounded by Maple trees clinging to their browning leaves with hints of red and deep orange. The smell of freshly baked #apple cider donuts greets you as you enter the quaint, charming market. The market itself is probably an old barn that now houses the bakery and some of the vegetables that might be grown on the grounds of the very orchard you are visiting. More than likely there will be fresh bottled cider and local homegrown honey. And if you’re lucky, the place might be offering some fruity, and sometimes just plain awful sweet local wine to taste, for a small fortune. (My Oregon wine bias might be showing a little).

I think I skipped over the grounds skirting the barn-slash-market.

They undoubtedly will be decorated with pumpkins and gourds. (I happened to purchase a gourd that looks like a goose). Intermixed among the gourds and pumpkins will be rows and rows of mums and aster in all the fall colors of mustard, burgundy, cardinal red and deep purple.

You get the idea.

All of this gorgeous autumn foreplay and I haven’t said the words “pumpkin spiced latte” even once. New England doesn’t need them to get you in the mood.

Well, I was in the mood to share some of this seasonal joy, so having walked away from our apple picking date with two full bags and upwards of more than thirty-five apples, there is simply no other choice but to make apple pies. (Apple crisp is a worthy option, but apple sauce feels a bit like a waste of a good opportunity.)

Lucky for me my house guest, and childhood friend of too many decades to count, has been staying with me for the very purpose of experiencing a #New England fall. (She resides in Hawaii, and has since we visited Oahu on our high school graduation trip. But that is another story altogether). Anyway, she volunteers to make pies. And says she has a great recipe. Who am I to stand in the way of such a generous offer?

My husband loves #apple pie.

The whole apple pie idea did start with my imagining aloud that I might make a pie for the neighbors.

I’m a little late to the welcome wagon. About a year ago, new neighbors moved into the house kitty-corner to my own. We noticed right away that the neighbor was a police person by the obvious official car parked regularly in the driveway. I have not seen the neighbors so I couldn’t tell you what they look like. But I also noticed some balloons celebrating the birth of a baby a few months ago.

I really need to welcome them. I’ve been thinking for months.

We’re a pretty tight neighborhood–block parties, cups of borrowed sugar, wine-with-the-ladies kind-of-thing. Plus, my own kids used to be spoiled by the goodies sent our way from the elderly couple who lived in the house now owned by the policeman and his young family. In the name of Karma, I should really send some treats over their way.

But you know, always so busy. Hardly ever bake. Months have gone by now. Is it too late to welcome them?

Upon making my intentions public, High School Bestie volunteers, “I’ll make them a pie too.”

So, one secret recipe and two flaky crusted pies later, one with an engraved maple leaf and the other with an engraved pumpkin, Bestie, Daughter, and I walk across the street with a fresh out-of-the-oven warm apple pie in hand.

It. Does. Not. Get. Any. Better.

The squad car is gone, but the Sunday afternoon football game is visibly broadcasting from the picture window. A baby swing and pink pillow can be seen from the porch. We knock on the door but the only sign of life is a spastic, barking dog. If the tired Mom is trying to catch a nap with her newborn, we definitely just destroyed her opportunity.

However. Hot apple pie.

So, I knock again, because the dog probably woke everyone up and now the only mea culpa I can offer for disturbing-the-peace at this officer’s house is the said, apple pie.

After two knocks, and relentless barking, no one arrives at the door to receive our offering.

I have a cousin who is married to a police officer and it crossed my mind that an uninvited knock on the door with a vulnerable baby might be unwelcome by the new mom.

But there was the matter of the pie, so upon the advice of my Bestie and my daughter I push the Ring doorbell under the impression I can leave her a message.

“Hi. I’m your neighbor. We baked you a pie.” Something like that. I think it sounded better when I said it. More like, “I should have welcomed you sooner.”

I leave my number and say give me a call and we’ll drop off the pie.

Okay as I write this, I hear it. It’s starting to sound a little weird.

So, the three of us return home with the still warm apple pie waiting for the neighbor to call.

We leave the pie out for a while because to refrigerate it would be to take away its superpower of warm apple pie.

The neighbor does not call.

“She’s probably sleeping.”

“With that barking dog?”

“Maybe she hasn’t yet heard the Ring message.”

“Maybe she thought we were selling God.” 

After all, three unknown women. Sunday afternoon. Knocking on the door. I would probably hide too.

Still, we wonder, do we wait for her to call? Or do we make another attempt?

“It kind of feels like we’re forcing pie on her,” says my Bestie.

Hours later still no call.

“C’mon,” we agree, “who doesn’t want a hot apple pie from your new neighbors?”

“Maybe the Ring didn’t record our message” we rationalize.

And this is what leads to the dilemma.

“Do we give the pie to another neighbor?” I ask.

The pie’s powers were diminishing every minute it sat on the counter out of the oven. We should really share its magic with someone.

“But what if she calls? Then what?” counters Bestie.

Yeah, that would be totally weird. “Thanks for calling, welcome to the neighborhood and sorry we gave your pie away.”

We continued to analyze the reasons she might not have returned our call.

“Should we wait for the squad car to come home and then try again?” I ask.

The pie sat patiently through our deliberations.

Not unreflective people, we begin to see the possible problem with having the new neighbors feel as though we are imposing an apple pie on them.

So, we’re stuck. We cannot give the apple pie away for fear she might call, and we can’t try and offer the pie again for fear we will be known forever after as those strange Pie-pushing Ladies.

After patiently waiting for hours for a call that did not come, it was no longer a hot apple pie.

We somberly place the pie, in its perfect form with its golden crust, into the refrigerator for the night.

Meanwhile, the four of us eat our own pie for dessert and then again for breakfast. We show no restraint. We demonstrate no will power. We shave off small slivers of pie to accompany every meal. And definitely afternoon coffee.

Less than twenty-four hours later, our pie, is gone.

Still the neighbor does not call.

Yet, the dilemma is no longer a dilemma. The pie lost its out-of-the-oven status a full day ago.

We wait an appropriate and respectful amount of time.

Much to my husband’s delight, the pie is now ours.

I just hope we still live in a world where it’s okay to bake for new neighbors.