Mary Novaria

Not really me!  Apple pie is my go-to dessert for John, although I confess I don’t make it very often. Life gets in the way. We get busy, I get lazy. Plus, who wants the temptation of that second slice before bed or (horrors!) a piece for breakfast in the morning? And, honestly, coring, peeling and slicing all those apples is kind of a pain, not to mention the floury clean-up afterward. So pie baking, for the most part, has been relegated to special occasions—Thanksgiving (pumpkin), Valentine’s Day (I can make a cherry pie, Billy Boy!) and Father’s Day (apple, natch). I sometimes gift my brother-in-law with Lemon Meringue for his birthday, and my friend Jeanie and I are mad for Key Lime. But John loves apple, so once in a while he is deemed deserving—because he’s been working too hard or traveling too much or has been putting up with me—and I surprise him with one. Last Sunday was one of those days. My mom hung up her apron a couple of years ago, but she once was a champion...

An earlier version of this essay appeared in HuffPost on 11/10/2015 I was mortified because I didn’t send thank you notes after my birthday the year my mother died. The flowers had drooped and died, but other presents — a couple of gift cards, an adult coloring book (very Zen), a cuff bracelet — were tangible reminders of my negligence. It’s not like me and I felt guilty. It’s not that I wasn't grateful. I was. And I was raised better than to blow off this time-honored tradition and most basic piece of etiquette. My mom drilled into me as soon as I could write, it seems, the importance of acknowledging a gift-giver’s thoughtfulness and generosity. After every Christmas and birthday she provided me with stationery, stamps and addresses, and hounded me until I wrote my notes. The year she gave me sealing wax and a brass stamp with an “M” on it I couldn’t wait to get to the task so I could light the deep red wax like a candle and watch, mesmerized, as it dripped onto the back ...