A Classic Applesauce Recipe For When You Want to Feel Like a Kid Again
To call the way I make applesauce a recipe would be an overstatement. It’s more like I create the ideal environment for apples to transform from a solid to a semi-liquid state, without having to peel, core, or dice them first. Whenever I have a few extra apples—whether they’re new crop, ordinary supermarket variety, or slightly bruised, been-around-the-crisper-drawer specimens—I halve them and toss them in a pot with a stick of cinnamon, juice from one lemon, and a vanilla bean, if I have it, or a teaspoon of vanilla extract. I add about a quarter cup of water to get things going, then set the flame to medium-low, put the lid on, and walk away.
As the apples metamorphose, their skins surrender tannins and color to the sauce—not to mention half the apples’ fiber. The fruit steams in its own juices, concentrating in flavor as the liquid simmers. When I start to smell enticing aromas, I give a stir to make sure nothing is sticking, then set it and forget it again. After about 45 minutes (or however long I nap for), the flesh will be completely yielding. I transfer the whole batch to my food mill, which holds back the seeds and stems as the sauce passes through. (If you don't have a food mill, now would be the time to get one. I use mine for this applesauce, obviously, but also for mashed potatoes, tomato sauce, and soups of all kinds. It's a worthwhile investment, so don't buy a cheap-o plastic one; the one I bought in 1998 is stainless steel and restaurant grade.) This method rewards the lazy, absentminded, thrifty chef, and it works with any apple variety, or a combination.
You can eat it warm right when it’s done, which is enough of a reward for cooking from scratch. Adults like it. People with sore throats like it. It’s a breakfast food; it’s a snack. Innocent children can be convinced it’s a type of dessert. Best is that it’s a very good excuse to buy more apples, which I probably would have done anyway.
Classic Applesauce
