Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke
Today’s most important task wasn’t glamorous—but it was meaningful:
I peeled, sliced, and macerated apples for tomorrow’s apple pie.
We’re heading to my sister’s house for a Christmas party, and my official contribution is two pies: one apple, one pumpkin. Sadly, my mother won’t be able to come this year because she has the flu and doesn’t want to share it with the rest of us. That’s disappointing—but also considerate. Germs are not festive.
I was still excited, though. I used this same apple-pie process for Thanksgiving, and my brother-in-law—a genuinely excellent cook—complimented it. That is high praise. When someone who regularly feeds everyone beautifully enjoys something you made, it hits differently.
So yes, I’m happily attempting a repeat performance.
I always prep pies two days ahead. Pies, like good ideas, improve with a little patience. The day before baking, I macerate the apples—letting sugar and spices pull out their juices and soften them overnight. Tomorrow, all I have to do is assemble and bake.
The pumpkin pie required a small compromise this year. We didn’t make our own pumpkin purée like usual. Everyone was too busy, and even applesauce didn’t happen. So we bought purée from the store. Is it as romantic? No. Is it acceptable? Absolutely.
I love baking for family gatherings. It’s how I show up. I’ve loved baking since I was a teenager, and after my brain stroke—when I couldn’t even draw a proper clock—I still baked my wife a birthday cake with my father’s help. Baking gave me structure, sequencing, and purpose. In a very real way, it became part of my rehabilitation.
There’s something deeply grounding about measuring, mixing, waiting, and watching something become whole.
I can’t believe the year is almost over. The best parts of the holidays are still ahead. My wife is already excited to see her niece—she only gets that chance during family gatherings because life is so busy for everyone.
For now, I’m content with bowls of spiced apples resting quietly in the fridge, doing their slow magic.
It feels good to contribute something made with care to people I care about—even if it’s just pie.