We call it Apple Day.
It happens only once a year. It always takes place on a Sunday in November. Contrary to what the name implies, the day is really not about the apple strudels. It’s not about the nine pounds of apples or the two bags of flour or the sprinkle of cinnamon. It’s not about the matching aprons. It’s not about the way the scent of the strudels fills the house. The strudels themselves are just a bonus, really.
Apple Day is about us. It’s about family.
It’s about tradition and coming together and forgetting our differences (because there are always differences). It’s about laughter and conversation and remembering how much we love each other (because we really do love each other).
It’s about sitting back on the couch while the strudels bake, holding a warm cup of coffee in my hands. It’s about looking around at the mess of the kitchen and the mess of my complicated family and being thankful.
It’s about watching Katie lean in close over the table and kiss the patch of dough she has carefully rolled out.
“What are you doing, Katie?” I ask.
“Putting the love in,” she answers, her nose now white with flour.
We call it Apple Day, and it is beautiful.