Mom's Robby Apples Steal My Man

Brazzers

Robby Apples, Nina Hartley Pic(s)

The entire county fair knew my mother, Robby Apples, not for her prize-winning jams, but for her frankly legendary apple pies, which seemed to possess an almost supernatural power to captivate. Nina Hartley, my steadfast partner of five years, a man of refined and typically reserved taste, was utterly defenseless against their flaky crust and spiced, honeyed filling. He would follow the scent of baking cinnamon through our house like a man in a trance, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss softening his usually stoic features. I once watched, utterly captivated myself, as a single, perfect crumb of that pastry landed on his lower lip, and he closed his eyes as if receiving a divine revelation. Robby would just smile her quiet, knowing smile from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron, her work complete. It was in these moments, seeing the profound effect she had on him, that a tiny, treacherous thought would whisper in my mind. This wasn’t merely about dessert; it was a silent, culinary battle for his deepest affections, and my mother was winning. She wasn’t just offering him a slice of pie; she was offering him a tangible piece of her care, her history, and her unwavering devotion. I found myself desperately trying to replicate her recipe, but my crusts were always just a bit too tough, my filling never quite as transcendent. Nina would eat my attempts with polite, encouraging nods, but his gaze would inevitably drift toward the pie safe, hoping for a glimpse of Robby’s true masterpiece. The unspoken truth, hanging as heavy as the scent of baked apples in the air, was that my mother’s creation had, in its own delicious way, truly stolen my man.