It’s never perfect–this dance with festivities and joy and magic. I’m eye-level with my 1-year-old daughter, offering her a spoon sampling of apple pie filling. She’s cautiously testing the apple goodness and soon throws caution to the wind lifting her spoon for more, more, more! Of course, I oblige. A few times, at least. It’s here in the hot kitchen, I feel the burst of joy that comes with this season and the sentiment “these are the days.”
None of it is perfect though.
The morning was spent sweating at the pumpkin patch, myself struggling physically, but an enthusiastic boy running happy, us choosing our pumpkins, and quick family snaps I’ll treasure forever. The afternoon was spent with myself on the edge of a migraine, but my kids peaceful, cool, and resting. Later, I’d try my hand at apple turnovers, because the edge of my migraine would finally turn a corner, and so I could. It was a clumsy, lopsided attempt at apple turnovers which turned into homemade delight, a generous helping of sugar and a little girl toddling around with a Christmas tree spatula.
When I don’t ask the season to be perfect, I’m sweating in the kitchen, seized with the wonder of this moment, eye-level with my daughter, a spoonful of clumsy apple delight raised to her lips. I feel the joy of autumn, and it feels nothing like we imagine it to be. Life is largely un-aesthetic and largely wonderful. Real to the point of gritty imperfection…
And so special to the point it seems too good to be real.
I’ve also found apple pie is a very forgiving thing. The worse and more lopsided it gets, the more home-y and tasty it looks. Like family memories came to life right before your eyes. Like when I make apple turnovers again next year, I’ll see myself in the kitchen, eye-level with my 1-year-old daughter, and I’ll remember how it felt to be right there with her, apple pie filling on a simple spoon, time standing still for just a few moments, us together in autumn…delighted.
And while the air back then felt sweltering in real-time, I’ll feel only the tender warmth of that memory, find myself back in the steps to that imperfect dance between magic and joy and realness.
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Sierra V. Fedorko 
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