One of our favorite places to shop is called, The Root Cellar. It's like a giant fruit market, bakery, and butcher shop all rolled into one. This time of year the bins are overflowing with autumn's harvest of corn, carrots, potatoes, pumpkins, and about ten different varieties of apples.
My mom used to make a delicious square that's a different take on the traditional apple pie. I'd like to share the recipe with you today :)
- 2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1 cup shortening
- 1 egg yolk
- 1/2 cup milk
- 10 apples - peeled, cored and thinly sliced
- 1/2 cup light brown sugar
- 1/4 cup white sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
- 1 egg white
- Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
- In a large bowl, combine flour and salt. Cut in shortening until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Beat egg yolk in measuring cup and add enough milk to make 2/3 cup total liquid. Stir into flour mixture until all flour is damp. Divide the dough in half. On floured surface, roll half the dough into a rectangle and fit into a 9x13 inch pan.
- In large bowl, combine apples, brown sugar, white sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg. Put apple mixture in pan. Roll out remaining dough and place over apples. Seal edges and cut slits in top dough. Beat egg white till frothy and brush on crust.
- Bake in the preheated oven for 50 minutes, or until golden brown.
Jack hesitated with his hand fisted to knock on Laurel’s pumpkin-colored door. His aunt had this thing about brightly painted doors being good luck, or some such hogwash. The murmur of a voice from within told him Laurel had company. Male company. He tapped the file in his other hand against his thigh and glared a hole through the door.
“Guess it can wait ’til morning,” he grumbled, turning to step gingerly down the snow-covered stairs. Whoever-the-asshat-was, he could have at least shoveled them off for her. Just as he reached the sidewalk an angry shout coming from inside the house startled him. Jack grabbed for his service revolver and jumped for the door. He missed the stairs entirely and dropped the file, allowing it to fall unheeded into the snowbank. The papers from within tobogganed down the slope.
He rammed a fist against the wood. “Sheriff’s department, open the door.” His heart thundered in his chest and there was a ringing in his ears. Was he having a frigging heart attack for crying out loud? He’d never reacted like this before, not even when he’d chased after a murderer a few months ago. But the thought of someone hurting…
“Laur…el,” he shouted, panic clawing the back of his throat. Jack tried the knob but it was locked. He took a step back, angled himself sideways, and prepared to slam his shoulder into the wood. He started forward, slipping a little on the icy deck boards. Good thing, because it slowed him down just enough to narrowly avoid ploughing Laurel over when she pulled the door open.
When she saw him barrelling toward her with a gun in hand her beautiful eyes took over her face. “Yee…ahh,” she cried, tumbling backward and smacking her head against the now swinging door.
Jack tried backpedalling, but the slippery footing beneath his cowboy boots—dumb choice of footwear—had him sailing right into her already off-balanced body.
“Laurel, holy shit.” His hand reached out to grip her shoulder, conscious of the soft womanly feel of her plastered against his rapidly hardening body. Great. “I’m sorry, honey. Are you okay?”
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Find The Sherrif Meets His Match at: Book Link