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Apple pie

apple pie

apple pie

My sister always makes apple pie the same way. When I made it a few times here in England, people were commenting that it’s quite unusual. Well, it’s the traditional way to make apple pie in my house so maybe it’s just a family thing or maybe a Polish thing, I don’t know.

I know that I love it and Boyfriend totally digs it.

In fact I made it yesterday and it went so well, there’s nothing left.

My ex flatmate loved it as well, so this recipe is especially for him. For Kamil that is.


Apple pie


1-2 kg of apples (granny smith or golden delicious)

2 tablespoons of cinnamon

3-4 cloves

1/4 glass of brown sugar

half a cup (or half a pack) of butter

1 cup of sifted flour

2 eggs

few spoons of cold water

few spoons of vanilla sugar


1. First make shortbread crust. I never make sweet crust, but if you want to get high on an insulin rush, knock yourself out. Mix butter with flour, 2 egg yolks (sugar optional) and cold water. Use your hands to work the dough and form into a ball. Chill in the fridge.

2. Peel apples and grate them. Add sugar, cinnamon and cloves and cook until excess liquid evaporates. You can remove cloves after (highly recommended, you want a bit of spice but not to choke on it). Leave to cool.

3. Take your dough out of the fridge, divide into two parts(1/3 and 2/3). roll the bigger part on a slightly floured surface. Fit into a buttered tart dish, stab with a fork, prebake for about 15 minutes at 200 C.

4. Fill the crust with apples. Whisk the egg whites, add some vanilla sugar and whisk again till they are stiffer then some people’s upper lip. Spread on top of the apples. Use the remaining dough to sprinkle on top of the egg whites (like crumble, you can also use a grater and grate it like cheese. That’s what I do anyway).

5. Bake it at 200 C until meringue is baked and the crust on top is golden.

6. You can serve it hot or cold, with ice cream and on its own.





About potatofaces

People who cook always go on about precious memories of childhood food one of their family members cooked, how daddy or nanny taught them the importance of cooking and eating together, and they still remember the comfort food they produced, amazing dishes whipped up by brilliant but humble cooks in their family. Well, let me tell you, it was totally different in my family. My mother’s family – totally useless as cooks, who could survive on bread and butter, cooked once a week a terrible, terrible meal, usually some kind of meat piece with lots of brown sauce. Also, they were never bothered about eating together. That’s maybe why most of them were depressed and suicidal. My mother followed that path and couldn’t really cook, and because I never wanted to eat meat, was warning me that ‘one day I will regret it’. Probably because my mother wasn’t into cooking my sister at the age of 12 took over and started producing amazing dinners and cakes. Well, luckily for me and her we weren’t that genetically doomed because apparently my father’s family were gifted in that compartment. I can only presume it was genes, as my father divorced my mother when my sis and me were little and he strongly believed that he also divorced us. So, we were growing up never having any contact with him and as a result, couldn’t learn how to cook from him. That’s why I believe the love of cooking ( and the ability) was just passed to us genetically. My father, short time before he died, unexpectedly felt an urge to contact us. First he gave my sister a mandolin (that’s another thing I know about him- he played a few instruments). My sister refused to talk to him, he then decided to contact me and wanted to spend some time with me. I didn’t want to, as he was a stranger to me (I was 11 or 12 at the time) but as I was promised I could leave whenever I wanted to, I went to the village he lived in. There I tried his mother’s cooking everyone was raving about. It was simple and amazing, I wish they were as family dedicated as they were at baking, cooking, making pastries, wine, tinctures, you name it. But I ate, drunk, and got bored of strangers who were my family and demanded to be let to go home. One of the last things my father said to me was that I should start learning English because I might need it one day, which I ignored for another 16 years… Because my sister was such a domestic goddess I wasn’t really bothered about cooking. I got hooked properly after my son was born and I wanted him to eat healthy and get everything he needed, especially that it wasn’t his choice to be a vegetarian (yet). And that is how the story begins…

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