Spicy Applesauce — The Jar I Put Up for Mamma, and for Myself

The grief is a different shape than Paul's grief was. This grief is older — older in me, older in the bone, older in the sense that I have been preparing for it since I was a small girl and noticed that Mamma was not always going to be here. Paul's grief was unjust and brutal. Mamma's grief is just and brutal. Both kinds hurt. The hurting is different. I am learning the new hurt. The kitchen is patient with me while I learn. Astrid drove up from the Twin Cities for a long weekend. We sat in Mamma's kitchen at Fifth Street (Erik has not sold the house yet; we are not ready). We made meatballs together, in Mamma's kitchen, in Mamma's bowl, on Mamma's stove. We did not say much. We worked side by side the way we worked side by side as girls — at thirteen and ten, at nineteen and sixteen, now at sixty-something and sixty-something. The hands knew. The kitchen knew. The kitchen carried us through. Elsa called from Voyageurs. She said the loons came back this week. She said Mamma always loved the loons. She said it had not been the same year without her. I said no. It had not been. We talked for ten minutes. Elsa does not call often. The calls she does make are small and dense, like a hard candy. I save them. I roll them around in my mind for days afterward. I cooked Pumpkin soup this week. Sugar pumpkin roasted, blended with onion-garlic-ginger, coconut milk, vegetable stock, nutmeg. Topped with cream and pumpkin seeds. Damiano Center, Thursday. New volunteer this week — a young woman named Sara, just out of college, looking lost and brave. I showed her how to ladle. She caught on quickly. She asked me how long I had been doing this. I said: "Long enough that I do not count." She laughed. She will be back. The good ones come back. Paul's chair is at the head of the table. His glasses are on the shelf. The arrangement is permanent. The arrangement is the love. The arrangement has been remarked on, gently, by various people over the years — Anna, mostly, and well-meaning friends. The arrangement persists. I do not require justification for it. The chair is the chair. It is enough. Paul is not here. Mamma is not here. Pappa is not here. Erik is not here. They are all here in the kitchen, in the smell, in the taste, in the wooden spoon and the bread pans and the marble slab. The dead are not where the body went. The dead are in the kitchen. I have started, in the last few years, to think about what I will leave behind. Not in a morbid way. In a practical way. The recipes are written down. The notebook is on the counter. The kitchen is in good order. The house is in Anna's name (we did the legal work in 2032; the kids agreed; it was the practical thing). The grandchildren and great-grandchildren each have a few small specific things — a wooden spoon, a bread pan, a particular cast iron skillet — that I have already labeled with their names on small pieces of masking tape. Nobody knows about the masking tape labels. They will find them when they find them. Paul used to say that the difference between a place and a home was that a home was a place where you knew, from any room, what was happening in any other room. I knew, from the kitchen, when he was reading in the living room. I knew, from the bedroom, when he was getting coffee in the kitchen. The Kenwood house is still that kind of home. From the kitchen I know that Sven is asleep on his bed in the dining room (the small specific snore). From the kitchen I know what time the radio in the living room is set to come on. The home is the body of knowledge of itself. I still live inside that body of knowledge, even though Paul is not the one creating most of the data anymore. It is enough.

We made meatballs that weekend with Astrid, and meatballs want something alongside them — something bright and a little sharp to cut through the richness, something that smells like autumn and keeping. I put up a small batch of spicy applesauce the day after she drove back to the Cities. It is the kind of thing Mamma always had in a jar on the counter this time of year. It felt right to have a jar on my counter too.

Spicy Applesauce

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 30 min | Total Time: 45 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

• 3 lbs apples (about 8 medium; a mix of sweet and tart varieties works well), peeled, cored, and roughly chopped
• 1/3 cup apple cider or water
• 2 tablespoons light brown sugar, packed (adjust to taste)
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
• 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 1/8 teaspoon ground allspice
• 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper (or more to taste)
• 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
• Pinch of fine salt

Instructions

1. Combine and cook. Place the chopped apples and apple cider (or water) in a heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a gentle simmer, then cover and cook, stirring occasionally, until the apples are completely soft and beginning to fall apart, about 20–25 minutes.
2. Add the spices. Stir in the brown sugar, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, allspice, cayenne, lemon juice, and salt. Cook uncovered for another 5 minutes, stirring frequently, until the mixture thickens slightly and the spices have bloomed into the fruit.
3. Mash or blend. For a rustic, chunky texture, mash with a potato masher or the back of a wooden spoon. For a smoother result, carefully transfer to a blender or use an immersion blender and process to your preferred consistency.
4. Taste and adjust. Taste for sweetness and heat — add a little more brown sugar if the apples are very tart, or a pinch more cayenne if you want more warmth.
5. Cool and store. Let the applesauce cool to room temperature before transferring to clean jars. Store refrigerated for up to two weeks, or process in a water bath canner for longer shelf life.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 85 | Protein: 0g | Fat: 0g | Carbs: 22g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 20mg