Kylie Shay Apple Pie < 2024 >

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.”

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. kylie shay apple pie

The judges took one bite. Then another. Silence fell over the tent.

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. For the crust, he guided her hands

Later, someone asked for the recipe. Kylie tapped her temple. “Can’t write it down,” she said. “But I can show you. First, you’ll need a handful of this, a whisper of that, and someone who loves you enough to tell you when your crust is ugly.”

She used Granny Smiths instead of the tart, tiny green apples that grew on the old tree behind the farmhouse. The crust was a crumbly, butter-logged mess that slumped over the tin like a tired sweater. She’d even set off the smoke alarm. Just quick, sharp cuts

Kylie sliced into it. The steam rose in a fragrant cloud. She took a bite.