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This is a story about learning something new by practicing an old tradition.

The story starts with applesauce.

Making applesauce was an annual summer tradition for my late mother, and her mother. There may have been yet another generation back there simmering and stirring in the kitchen on humid Southern summer days before air conditioning, windows open and women in aprons fanning themselves in between steps. Mom’s applesauce was a treat* saved for holiday meals or other special occasions and shared with new neighbors or the ill at times of need.  That made it a necessary freezer staple, and she continued annual production into her 80s, in her own kitchen and then her daughter’s.

Who knows why we uphold some traditions and surrender others to the passage of time?  Hard to say, but in my kitchen these days, the time-intensive process feels like a tribute to Mom and the women in our previous generations.  As the kitchen fills with steam and the sweet aroma of the simmering fruit, I feel Mom at the stove, two years after she left us, as though she were standing there still.  And now I can recruit my grandchildren, too, stretching out the reach to another generation.

Mom also believed that many hands make light work, and I’ve favored an applesauce team approach that has included, at various times, my daughter, son-in-law, and two grandkids. Buddy and Sis, who are solid, competent kitchen help and have been raised properly as applesauce fans.

This summer, scrambled schedules falling how they do, it happened that Sis joined me solo as prep cook for the first applesauce session, her brother being off elsewhere.  It’s at least their third summer on the applesauce team, so there are no young novices left in our group. Sis turned 11 back in the spring, and the months have rolled forward offering example after example of the radical change in my role as her grandmother.

Nowadays, gone is the focus on safety and crayons available and books for story time and keeping the kids from accidentally poisoning the dog. More and more, I can see that what is needed is less of my anxious, worrying hands— nervously shielding small hands over hot pans and refitting bike helmets, grasping band-aids and cold compresses at the ready.  The times seem to call, instead, for more deployment of my supportive heart, more encouragement, offering more opportunities to try, experiment, and learn.

At the speed of a summer storm, the clouds of time blew past and there it was.  The rocking/reading/feeding G-ma was out of work, obsolete.  It’s time to step into a whole different job.  I watch Sis now, carrying a purse and wearing lipstick and discussing toenail polish with her mother (and her brother, now taller than his mom), and I wonder.  What’s the best way to love and relate to these adolescents during this tender era of their development?

In the drippy, mushy mess of the applesauce kitchen, Sis taught me something important about my new job.  She did it politely, patiently, but firmly, a stunning role reversal if ever there was one.

Whipping out the cutting boards and knives for chopping as we embarked on the process, I handed her my best, safest knife.  And immediately started in with a reminder about safely positioning her fingers on it.  “Evie,” she responded, without sarcasm or rancor, “you know we’ve done this before, right?”  Fair enough, I thought.  Staying quiet while chopping on my end of the island and hoping it wasn’t too obvious that I was watching, I observed her creating a grid pattern in the apple that improved the speed of the chopping required by probably a factor of 2x.  Well, well, let’s hear it for innovation and independent thinking, I thought.

Next comes the careful simmering of the chopped jewels in just a bit of water on the hot stove.  This step is delicate. A strong simmer softens the fruit well, but without careful attention, it can burn quickly on the bottom.

“Can I stir?” she asked.  Sure, I answered.  Remember, stand back a bit in case the pot spits and be sure to…” I know,” she interrupted, as politely as interrupting can be, “be sure it doesn’t stick to the bottom.”  Duly chastened, I backed up from the stove. She stirred, stepped back to let the simmer rise as instructed, then checked the bottom of the pot with the spoon.  Meanwhile, I executed a dog-like shake to re-set my approach.  Give the kid some space, already.

I turned to setting up the mill and suddenly got this urgent bulletin, “Can I go to the bathroom?”  I turned, puzzled.  You don’t have to get permission to go to the bathroom, sweetheart, you know that!  But she was waving urgently toward the pot, signaling for me to watch it on her behalf.  Wow, I thought as I took up her spoon, we are grown up enough to understand the implications of our actions.

Finally, the beautiful green fruit having softened to the desired mush, it was time for “milling”.  This is the final step, where the hot, tender mixture is pressed by a rotating blade through a sieve that captures the skins and releases the sauce below.  At last catching on to the pattern here, I took a breath and opened wide the door of opportunity.  Want to handle this part?  I asked.  You know how to do it.  I’ll help pour the apples in.  Then you can take it from there.

We grandmothers might be slow, but with luck, we ultimately catch on.  This offer produced the biggest smile of the afternoon, and I retreated all the way to the sink and turned to other tasks.   She went at it, rotating the mill lever with her characteristic energy and focus.  Will she remember to reverse the handle to scrape the bottom and keep from blocking the sieve with skins, I asked myself, employing the side-eye.  Of course, she did.  She finished carefully, completely, the final, green/gold product dripping beautifully into its mixing bowl below, and I felt the torch officially pass to the new generation of makers.

There was nothing more to say, except GREAT JOB!  And it was time to grab spoons.  Makers are entitled to the first, warm, tart samples.

And with my taste, I got a thrill to see Sis so, so proud.

As we waited for cooling and poured our finished product into the waiting containers, I reviewed my new G-ma Job Description in my head.  It’s pretty simple, really.

1.) Offer an opportunity (with minimal guidance where needed).

2.) Back up and get out of the way.

3.) Cheer the results fervently.

That’s the New Job. It’s a big change.  Time will tell if I can handle it.

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*We often get asked why our sauce tastes so different from other types, and the answer is the apples.  We use a variety is called Lodi, and our sauce-making season arrives every summer when the Lodi ripen on the trees in mid-June. Many who exclaim over the end product say they have never heard of this variety. Yet many Southern cooks have long known the Lodi as one of the very best “cooking” apples.  Good Lodi apples have such a bold, tart flavor that we add nothing, except the occasional dash of cinnamon, to the sauce.

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