Apple pie without some cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze

So you know how certain tastes, smells, pictures will trigger memories?  Like, the smell of cinnamon gum always makes me think of this guy I had a crush on in high school, or the fact that I can't look at a looney (a Canadian dollar coin--shut up, it's a real thing!) without thinking about walking down to the corner store by my grandparent's house to buy penny candy after dinner.  Well, I'm currently eating a Braeburn apple, which (in my opinion) is the best kind of apple out there.  Every bite gives that beautiful, crisp crunch sound while your mouth fills with sweet juice.  And tonight, with each delicious bite comes memories from when I was a kid, of my dad making apple pies. 

Nowadays, my dad just makes them for holiday dinners, but when I was younger there would be an occasional fall weekend when he felt like baking a pie.  I would sit there at the counter and watch as he smoothly sliced apple after apple (Braeburns, of course) into a large mixing bowl and then tenderly stir in the sugar and cinnamon.  And he would always give me a bite of an apple, coated in a sugary glaze, and ask me what I thought, as if I was his sous-chef giving him advice.  Sometimes I would help sprinkle the flour onto the countertop so that he could roll out the crust dough without it sticking to the surface, and I would watch as he spread out the circle of dough so thin it seemed impossible that it wouldn't rip.  Then, carefully, lovingly, he would line the pie pan with the crust and pour in the apple filling, until it was so full that I was sure some will spill over, but of course every time it was just the right amount.  He would gently lay the second crust on top, and I would get the honors of sealing the two crusts with a fork.  I was so deliberate and neat about it, making sure my little row of lines marched neatly around the edge of the pie.  And always, the finished product tasted delicious--the pie would emerge from the oven with a beautifully browned top and juice bubbling up from my fork indents.  The whole process from start to finish took several hours, so when my dad and I finally had a slice of that pie it felt like a mini-celebration, even if it was just an ordinary fall weekend.

So, as I sit here taking this mouth-watering walk down memory lane, I just want to say thanks, Dad, for filling my childhood with weekends of homemade apple pie.      

When people stop being polite and start getting real.

Today at student teaching, during a whole class discussion about fish facts, a little boy spoke up and said with an exasperated sigh, "Can we move on?  I'm bored."  Dude, I totally understand.

It's moments like this one when I envy the kids in my kindergarten class.  How awesome would it be to just say what you were truly thinking?

To the creepy homeless guy on the subway:  Stop it with the crazy eyes already!  You're seriously freaking me out.

To the arrogant bitch in my TC class (which class, you ask?  Pick one, any one):  You need to STFU.  If you really knew all the answers, than why the hell are you paying $40,000 to take these classes?  Get over yourself.

To my suitemate:  Do you really need to make so many noises when you spit after brushing your teeth?  Not only do you sound like you're hocking up a lung, but you do it at totally random times of the night which is not convenient for my sleep schedule.

To my hippie professor: Stop sounding like you were an extra in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.  Put down the bong, stow the "education is the connection between love and heart and hand and soul" crap, and just tell me what I need to know to be a competent teacher. 

But of course, I'm not a 5-year-old kid.  I'm (apparently) an adult, with both Canadian politeness and Quaker peacefullness drilled into me, so I will never ever say any of these things.  Although, who knows--a few more months of living in New York and I might start shaking things up a bit.