Comfort cooking

A few days ago I spent a couple of self-absorbed hours picking blackberries with Kim and some friends. We meandered along the hedgerows down by the local woods, pulling ripe berries from their stalks, while I quietly harboured thoughts I'd rather not divulge. We brought them home in sandwhich boxes and I washed them in a pleasing enamel colander I bought years ago, swirling them round and round and watching the pink-tinged water drain away. Then I stuck them in the fridge and forgot about them. Until this afternoon that is, when I had a peculiar urge to do some baking. I went into the garden and pulled apples from the frankly rather sorry-looking tree in the middle of the lawn and brought them back into the kitchen. Then I closed the doors; this was not an experience I planned to share. The kitchen is tiny and warms up quickly, which intensifies the sugar and cinnamon aroma as I let the apples sweat in their juices. I love sticking my head over the pan and inhaling the steam as I stir the fruit with the wooden spoon. Today I indulged in a little music too, playing the same sad song over and over through headphones, so that no-one but me could share the mood I was in. I stirred the berries slowly into the apples and thought about time passing.

In my melancholic daydream I realised I'd forgotten to make the pastry first. So I weighed out the butter and flour and started gently rubbing them away to nothing. The feeling of the butter softening between the warmth of my fingers is as sumptuous as the berries look, and I'm really beginning to lose myself. I can't be bothered to cool the pastry and just roll it out, laying it on to an old enamel plate and patching it up as I go. Then I pile on the still warm fruit, stealing soft pieces of apple and berries from the peak, that taste just like late summer should, before I cover them in a cloak of more thick pastry, anticipating it's richness once it's cooked and piping hot. I make little leaves and glue them to the top with milk; I cut them roughly with a steak knife and indent little 'veins' into them. Then, after I crimp the edges with my fingers and brush the pie with milk, I open the oven. I close my eyes to the blast of heat that hits me and put the pie inside. Then I just wait...