There’s a moment every year — usually sometime in early August — when I pretend it’s fall. I light a candle that smells like cinnamon and woodsmoke, queue up Gilmore Girls, and start peeling apples.
It’s a tradition. Not an official one written on any calendar, but one that lives deep in my soul. It’s how I open the season.
This year’s kickoff was courtesy of Grandma Ople’s Apple Pie recipe, which I baked while Lorelai and Rory argued about coffee and sweaters in the background. The recipe is different from my usual go-to, and honestly? I had to really trust the process. You make the sauce separately, pour it over the crust lattice, and just cross your fingers that apple magic happens.
Spoiler: it did. I posted the whole thing on [TikTok] — the slicing, the pouring, the golden bubbling mess of joy — and it turned out beautifully. A total repeat in my books.
I’ve been making apple pies for years. It’s one of my favorite things. But this year was special, because for the first time, I got to share the tradition with my kids. They watched, taste-tested (a little too much), and helped press the crust into the pan. They might not remember it the way I will, but that’s okay — it’s the beginning of our own version of fall memories.
There’s something about this season — even when it’s not technically here yet — that slows everything down. We become more aware. The sky changes. The light gets softer. We watch the leaves shift color like it’s the first time we’ve ever seen it happen. We breathe in a little deeper, we feel a little more grounded.
Fall is calming, invigorating, nostalgic — all at once. And sometimes, it starts with nothing more than a pie.
Here’s to early traditions, buttery crusts, and the little rituals that make life feel full.
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