Fall, 1989. As the leaves turned a beautiful burnt orange and the cold-weather clothing was retrieved from storage, I’d hear a familiar warning as I reached into the refrigerator:
“Don’t drink all the apple juice!”
I can still hear my mom’s voice, issuing the command as I hurriedly selected a different beverage. Because in my childhood home, fall meant long walks, oversized hoodies and my mom’s special Apple Juice Cake. I’m not quite sure why it was only baked in those selected months; perhaps it’s because the cake paired well with strong, hot coffee and was the perfect comfort food on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
Regardless, as soon as the weather cools and the days become shorter, I find myself thinking about that cake, made with simple ingredients that I always have on hand. Today, I continue the tradition during the autumn months with my own boys. To them, it’s Grandma’s Apple Juice Cake. To me, it’s a piece of my childhood. …
We always head to Erindale Park in Mississauga, where fallen leaves are plentiful. Another great spot is Riverwood Conservancy, where animal lovers can spot furry friends scampering about! …
This year, the kids surprised me. When the subject finally came around, they insisted on simply having a few friends over for a backyard birthday party. At first, I was taken aback – you mean we don’t have to invite everyone in the class? We don’t have to rent out the local Bounce ‘n Play?
I have children now – two perfect little boys, only one is the spitting image of me – and they are the center of my world. My pre-offspring predictions about how much I’d love my children were pretty spot on. But for all the feelings of love, anticipation, nurturing and excitement I’d felt, there was one I hadn’t counted on – guilt.