There is something particularly good about an Alberta apple.
I didn’t really know this until I started baking with them.
I am certainly not an apple expert. I couldn’t walk through an orchard and confidently identify every tree, and until fairly recently I couldn’t have told you much about the difference between a Goodland and a Norkent. But I do know pie. And after making apple pies with fruit grown close to home, picked in season and used almost immediately, I have become convinced of one thing:

The best apple pie begins with more than one kind of apple.

Sweet ones. Tart ones. Firm ones that keep their shape in the oven and softer ones that collapse into the spaces between them. Together they make a filling that tastes distinctly of apples rather than simply cinnamon and sugar. And, as it turns out, the Canadian Prairies have quite an apple story.

I have always been drawn to beautiful things.

Not necessarily expensive things. Not perfect things. And certainly not new things.

A worn leather bag. An old wooden table. A linen shirt that gets softer every time it is washed. A funny little painting someone else no longer wanted. Shoes made well enough to have already belonged to somebody and still have years left in them.

I notice these things. And I’ve started to think that noticing might be an art in itself.

I started making macarons about fifteen years ago, when my kids were little. I can’t remember exactly what possessed me to try them. Probably because they were beautiful.

That has gotten me into a lot of things.Back then I made very simple flavours. Lemon. Raspberry. Pistachio. Sometimes they worked. Sometimes they absolutely did not. And even when they looked right, they didn’t necessarily taste particularly good. But more often than not, they were okay. And every once in a while, they were perfect. Those were the ones that got me.

I don’t think Sunday needs to look a certain way. Maybe yours is loud. Maybe there are children everywhere. Maybe you’re alone. Maybe you go to church. Maybe you sleep until noon.
Maybe you make bread. Maybe you spend the entire day in the garden and come inside with dirt under your fingernails.

I don’t think the activity is what makes it sacred. I think it’s the decision to leave a little room in your life for being a person rather than constantly being productive. To notice where you are. To become curious again. To make something with no particular urgency.