By September and the first Rosh Hashanah where I am not balancing school and holidays, and the relief of that is real — for the first time in forty-three years, I can give the holidays my full attention, and the full attention is what the holidays deserve, because Rosh Hashanah is not a holiday that can be managed alongside lesson plans and faculty meetings, Rosh Hashanah is a holiday that demands everything, and everything is what I now have to give.
The table is set for fourteen. The brisket is marinating. The round challah is rising. The honey cake — the rehearsed, adjusted, perfected honey cake — is in the oven. The apples are sliced. The honey is in the dish. Everything is ready for the new year, which is also the last year of this particular arrangement: Marvin at this table, in this house, for the holidays. After Sukkot, he goes. The going is planned. The going is decided. The going is the right thing and the worst thing and I am holding both truths in my hands like two knives, and both cut, and I hold them anyway.
I stood in the dining room on Sunday afternoon and looked at the table — the fourteen place settings, the candlesticks, the round challah, the silver, the china — and I said, out loud, to no one, to the room itself: "This is the last time this table will be set for Marvin." The room did not answer. The candlesticks caught the light. The challah rose. The table was ready. The table has always been ready. The table will be ready next year, and the year after, and the year after that, but Marvin will not be at it, and the table will hold his absence the way it has held his presence: with the weight of forty years, with the linen napkins pressed, with the chair pulled out, with the place set for a man who is coming home from a different kind of exile.
The apples were already sliced, the honey already in the dish, and the whole house smelled like cinnamon and something I couldn’t name — maybe finality, maybe grace. When you are setting a table for the last time in its current form, every side dish becomes a small ceremony, and this applesauce — slow, simple, stirred by hand the way my mother stirred hers — felt like the right thing to set beside the brisket and the round challah. It asks almost nothing of you, which is useful when everything else is asking so much.
Old-Fashioned Applesauce
Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 30 minutes | Total Time: 45 minutes | Servings: 8
Ingredients
- 4 pounds apples (a mix of McIntosh and Fuji works well), peeled, cored, and roughly chopped
- 3/4 cup water
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar (adjust to taste)
- 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
- 1 tablespoon lemon juice
- Pinch of salt
Instructions
- Combine the apples and water. Place the chopped apples and water in a large heavy-bottomed saucepan. Cover and bring to a boil over medium-high heat.
- Cook until tender. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the apples are completely soft and breaking apart, about 20–25 minutes.
- Season and sweeten. Remove from heat. Add the sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, lemon juice, and salt. Stir to combine.
- Mash to your preferred texture. For chunky applesauce, mash with a potato masher or fork. For smooth applesauce, use an immersion blender or pass through a food mill.
- Cool and serve. Let the applesauce cool to room temperature, then refrigerate until ready to serve. It will thicken as it cools. Serve chilled or at room temperature.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 140 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 37g | Fiber: 4g | Sodium: 20mg