He showed Kylie how to feel for apples that gave a little when pressed. He made her close her eyes and taste a raw slice. “Sharp,” she said. “Almost mean.”
The recipe, handwritten on a flour-dusted index card, sat propped against the salt shaker. It read like a secret code: “A handful of this, a whisper of that, and bake until the kitchen smells like home.” Not exactly the precise measurements Kylie’s culinary school instructor demanded. kylie shay apple pie
She had promised to bring the pie to the Harvest Festival bake-off. It wasn’t about winning the blue ribbon—though that would silence her rival, Chad from the gastropub. It was about legacy. Grandma Jo had passed last spring, and the town expected Kylie to carry the torch. He showed Kylie how to feel for apples
For the crust, he guided her hands. “Cold butter, Kylie. Treat it like a bad date—keep your distance, don’t get attached. Just quick, sharp cuts.” “Almost mean
As she worked, he told stories. How Grandma Jo won Henley’s heart with a pie on a July afternoon. How she’d once thrown a pie at a traveling salesman who’d insulted her crust. By the time Kylie slid the new pie into the oven, her cheeks hurt from laughing.
Kylie Shay knew two things for certain: her grandmother’s apple pie was the best in three counties, and she had absolutely no idea how to make it.
Kylie slumped onto a stool, defeated. “I’m a fraud,” she muttered into her hands.