susan hayward photography

Apple Pie Recipe

This is the apple pie that made me forget about the car falling apart…at least for a few minutes. The crust is made from scratch, and the apple filling didn’t come from a can. Yes, I peeled and sliced eight apples and mixed them with a little sugar, butter, and a smidge of flour. Move over Martha Stewart!

Actually, the recipe came from Lucinda Scala Quinn, who is Martha Stewart’s Executive Food Director, so I guess Martha can’t move over too much. I first saw this recipe in Scala Quinn’s cookbook Mad Hungry: Feeding Men and Boys. I’m not kidding when I say that every recipe I tried from this book my men loved. So while it’s good to look the recipes up on the website, it’s even better to own the book. Your men will thank you for it. And you’ll thank yourself, too.

If, like me, you have big bills this month and can’t buy cookbooks right now, you can access the Mad Hungry blog here:mad hungry blog

And, if you don’t already have it bookmarked, you can also find the Old Fashioned Apple Pie recipe here:Martha Stewart' Site/Apple Pie Recipe

 

PS

Scala Quinn recommends using four tart and four sweet apples for the filling. I prefer all sweet, because I’m a bit of a sugar addict. (Which explains why I have so many cavities, but unfortunately does not correlate to my disposition.)

PPS

If you have a better apple pie recipe (no canned filling or storebought crusts allowed) let me know. I'd love to make it and eat it and photograph it. Not in that order, though.

Why I Made Pie

I have a confession to make. I, Susan,  have been wasting time looking for furniture in the online classifieds. We’re talking hours here. Hours that could have been spent reading, talking to my children, studying scriptures, or eating desserts. But I’ve been too obssessed with the search for a red chair and two green ottomans to stop, because those things would just make the room, you know?

 

And then, our car wouldn’t stop making  a noise that reminded me of an airplane idling on the runway. I worried that it would one day explode while I and the children were sitting at a stoplight arguing over what radio station to listen to. So we took it to the shop. The mechanic rattled on about a couple of holes in the radiator, a sensor on the fritz, and something about it all costing $600. Let’s put this in perspective, shall we? In the last month, we’ve had to get new brake pads and drums, the air conditioning serviced (just in time for winter, eh?), the rear window replaced (a bit of bad luck on that one) and now this. So, that red chair and the two little ottomans? They'll have to wait for some future day when our car runs smoothly and God grants me early menopause.

 

But really, I’m okay with this. After I baked an apple pie, things looked slightly better. And after I ate a slice of the pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream (not Haagan-Daz, unfortunately because, you know, we’re broke), I could cope with the cost of driving a stinking mini-van. (And I mean “stinking” literally. There’s often a strange odor in the van that smells of sour milk or a dead squirrel, I can’t decide which.) I think this is God’s way of saying, “Hey, stop wasting time shopping on the internet and do something more important, like making pie.”  

 

Paul's Birthday

Today, my middle dude turned thirteen. I can vividly remember the day he was born. Well, that's not true. I can't remember what the weather was like, or what I was wearing, or what we ate for lunch that day. What I remember the most is the pain. Some people who either had a c-section or an epidural told me that I'd forget the pain eventually, and within a couple of years want another baby. But I still remember the searing pain of getting this kid outta my body to this day. But I can honestly say that it was worth it. Or rather, HE was worth it. Even as I write this, he is playing lacrosse with his birthday balloon (dangerously close to the new bookshelves with glass doors, but the kid is so coordinated I'm not too worried), whistling a tune. He is not yet a terrible teenager. Come to think of it, he wasn't a terrible two either. Paul has always been the happy kid, the one with all the energy, the one who wins all the contests but doesn't brag about it. Plus, he's always been a good sleeper, even when he was a baby. So he's a keeper.

This morning I was reading in Beth Kephart's beautifully written book A Slant of Sun, in which she describes what it is like to have a child. She says it better than I could:

Until I had [a child], I didn't understand the expression 'child of God.' But now I do. I understand that God's alive in him. That my son is a spiritual presence, grander in his architecture than I will ever be.

 

Happy Birthday, Paul. I heart you. 

The Courage to Create

Recently, I almost gave up on creativity. Nothing was going right, and I thought it would be easier to hide away in the house then actually get out there and do something.

 

But then, I spoke to a friend, an incredibly talented artist, and she reminded me that God gives us the desire to create for a reason—not for punishment, but for joy.  “Keep on kicking” is her motto, "and something will eventually work." Her belief in me propels me forward. Hopefully, someone believes in you, too. Whether your happiness comes from creating a work of art or creating a lasting relationship, may you have a cheerleader on your side. And more importantly, may you cheer someone else in their journey as well. 

Happy Monday!

My New Portfolio

Did you know I have put together a new portfolio of food images? You can see my collection here: Susanhaywardphotography.com

Rowing My Boat

 

I have been thinking a lot about rowing my boat lately. For the past year, I haven't been rowing, exactly. I've been treading water.

However, recently I've been getting out the oars and working on my upper body strength, in preparation for something, I'm not sure what. Then I remembered a bit by Wayne Dyer I saw on PBS years ago. He recited "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" as if it were a poem, and not a children's song. There are some great words of wisdom in that song if you say it instead of sing it. 

Go ahead, try it yourself (I'll insert Wayne Dyer's reflections, at least in the way I remember them):

Row, row, row YOUR boat (row your own boat, not someone else's)

 

Gently, down the stream (gently, not willy nilly-in-a-panic)

 

Merrily, Merrily, Merrily (in a HAPPY way)

 

Life is but a dream. (Is what worries you the point of your existence, or a little blip in the grand                                             scheme?)

 

 

One more thought: Maybe it's not what floats your boat, it's what rows your boat.

Happy Rowing!