Apple Butterscotch Crisp

Harlan summer — green so deep it looks black at noon. Worked at the construction company in Lexington this week. The body holds. Most days.

Connie at the vet clinic, four shifts this week. Her back is tired. She does not say so. I see it. Mama is 86. She is the toughest person I have ever known. She still cooks every day in the company house in Evarts.

Green beans with bacon. Slow cooked. Connie's way.

Travis called Tuesday. The landscaping company is busy. He sounds tired in a good way. Amber called Sunday. Things are good. James sends his regards.

The creek was running clear. The turkeys were back. The week was the week.

I sat on the porch with bourbon at sundown Friday. The fog rolled into the hollow the way it has every fog of every year. The porch was the porch. The bourbon was the bourbon.

Worked on a basement remodel job in Lexington. The work was good. The pay was good. The body is tired.

The neighbor up the road — Old Roy, eighty-seven, lives alone — had a small heart scare. We took him soup beans Tuesday. Cornbread too. He cried a little when he ate. We all cry over soup beans eventually.

Drove to Pineville for parts Wednesday. The hardware store man knew me. We talked about the weather and the price of feed. Forty minutes for a five-minute errand. That is rural Kentucky.

Connie cut my hair on the porch Tuesday afternoon. She has been cutting my hair for forty years. The barber in Pineville cannot do what Connie does, which is also love.

I checked the truck oil Saturday. The mileage on this truck is criminal.

The creek was running clear Sunday afternoon. I watched a kingfisher work the riffle. Did not move for an hour. Some Sundays the watching is the worship.

Read the paper at breakfast Tuesday. The county news is not great. The mines have not come back and they will not come back. The young people leave. The hollows empty. We stay.

Amber sent the kids' school photos this week. Nadia is taller every year. Marcus has Amber's serious face. Little Betty has Mama's eyes.

The dog — old Beau, fifteen years old — slept by the wood stove all afternoon Tuesday. He used to be a hunting dog. Now he is a heating pad with opinions.

Sunday service at Harlan First Baptist when we go. Pastor preached about Ruth and Boaz. The choir sang. Connie wore her gray dress.

I split a half-cord of wood Saturday. Slowly. The back does not let me work fast anymore. It got done. The wood was for the smokehouse.

I went up to Earl's grave at the Evarts cemetery Saturday. Brought a beer. Drank half. Poured the rest on the dirt. Some traditions are mine alone.

I sat at the kitchen table Tuesday night working on the recipe project. Mama's soup beans. I cannot get the words right yet.

My back was tight after the wood-splitting Saturday. Took an Aleve. Slept eight hours. Got up.

Connie made jam Saturday afternoon. Wild blackberries from the patch up the hollow. Twelve jars. The pantry is filling for winter.

Travis sent a photo of Earl Thomas riding on the mower with him at a job site. The boy is wearing a Hensley Landscaping T-shirt that's too big. Three generations on a mower. I saved the photo.

Connie read aloud from a novel Tuesday evening while I worked on the bench. Some Appalachian writer she had picked up at the library in Whitesburg. The voice was the voice of where we live. We listened together.

Connie put up twelve jars of wild blackberry jam Saturday, and watching her work the pantry shelves into order got me thinking about the other things worth putting away for winter — not just preserves, but the kind of warmth you can bake into a dish and carry through a long week. This apple butterscotch crisp is that kind of thing: nothing complicated, nothing wasted, just fruit and a good crumble top and the particular sweetness that fills a kitchen the way fog fills a hollow. It is what I would have set on the table after the soup beans we carried to Old Roy, if the night had called for something sweet at the end of it.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr | Servings: 8

Ingredients

6 medium apples (Granny Smith or Honeycrisp), peeled, cored, and sliced 1/4-inch thick
1/2 cup butterscotch chips
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon cinnamon, divided
1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into small cubes
Vanilla ice cream or whipped cream, for serving (optional)

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat your oven to 350°F. Lightly butter a 9x13-inch baking dish or equivalent cast iron pan.
Prepare the filling. In a large bowl, toss the sliced apples with granulated sugar, lemon juice, and 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon until evenly coated. Spread the apples in an even layer in the prepared baking dish. Scatter the butterscotch chips over the top of the apples.
Make the crisp topping. In a separate bowl, combine the rolled oats, flour, brown sugar, remaining 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, and salt. Add the cold butter cubes and work them into the dry ingredients with your fingers or a pastry cutter until the mixture resembles coarse, clumpy crumbs with some pea-sized pieces of butter remaining.
Assemble and bake. Spread the crisp topping evenly over the apple and butterscotch layer, covering all the way to the edges. Bake uncovered for 40–45 minutes, until the topping is deep golden brown and the apple filling is bubbling at the edges.
Rest and serve. Let the crisp rest for 10 minutes before serving. Spoon into bowls and top with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream if you like. It is also good cold the next morning at the kitchen table with coffee.

Nutrition (per serving)

Apple Butterscotch Crisp — The Sweetness That Keeps the Pantry Full