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WATFORD CITY, N.D. 鈥� The kids are back to school, the mornings are cool, the tomatoes are ripening in the garden, and so are the wild plums in the sharp and poky brushes of the ranch. Just yesterday, my nieces came in with handfuls they had collected with their mom and grandpa and informed me that they were ready by dropping them on my kitchen counter and inviting us all to indulge.

Ripe wild plums are one of the signs that we鈥檙e transitioning into fall, so I wanted to share with you a memory from the archives from when I found myself with a bag full of homegrown apples and the urge to do something beautiful with them. And so my mom, little sister and I (none of us seasoned bakers) decided to take on my grandma Edie鈥檚 pie recipe, crust and all.

Jessie Veeder / The Forum

It鈥檚 a sweet memory sprinkled with nostalgia from when my oldest daughter (who just started second grade) was just a baby. She was fresh and new to this world, named after the grandma whose recipe we had in hand, and I was fresh and new to motherhood and feeling domestic and content in the kitchen surrounded by the comfort of generations and the promise of a cool down.

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READ MORE OF JESSIE'S COMING HOME COLUMNS

Greetings from the ranch in western North Dakota and thank you so much for reading. If you're interested in more stories and reflections on rural living, its characters, heartbreaks, triumphs, absurdity and what it means to live, love and parent in the middle of nowhere, check out more of my Coming Home columns below. As always, I love to hear from you! Get in touch at jessieveeder@gmail.com.

Enjoy this season. Enjoy the fruits of your labor, and lock your doors because it鈥檚 also the time of year that zucchini starts hitchhiking 鈥�

September 2016

My mom keeps a small wooden box in her kitchen, tucked up in the cupboard next to her collection of cookbooks. On the front it reads 鈥淩ECIPES鈥� in the shaky, wood-burning technique of a young boy trying his hand at carpentry.

And inside is an assortment of recipe cards, of course, notes from a kitchen and a cook who left us all too soon, taking with her that famous homemade plum sauce.

And the from-scratch buns she served with supper.

And the familiar casseroles that you could smell cooking as you walked up toward the tiny brown house from the barnyard after a ride on a cool fall evening.

Every once in a while, my mom will open that box on a search for a memory tied to our taste buds. She鈥檒l sort through the small file of faded handwriting and index cards until she finds it, setting it on the counter while she gathers ingredients, measures, stirs, and puts the dish together the best way she remembers.

I鈥檓 thinking about it now because it鈥檚 sitting on my kitchen table, the one that used to sit in my grandmother鈥檚 kitchen all those years ago acting as a surface to roll out dough and pie crusts or a place to serve countless birthday cakes or her famous April Fool鈥檚 day coffee filter pancakes.

And so they鈥檝e met again, that table and that box, which is currently sitting next to a pie pan covered in tinfoil.

Because last week we pulled the box out on a mission for guidance on what to do with the 50,000 pounds of apples my little sister inherited from the tree in the backyard of the house she bought a few years back.

鈥淢aybe we should make applesauce or apple crisp,鈥� we said as Little Sister plopped the fourth bag full of fruit on my kitchen counter, my mom sipping coffee and my big sister entertaining my nephew beside her.

I reached up in the cupboards to dust off a couple recipe books because we all agreed then that apples this nice deserve to be in a pie, and Googling 鈥減ie making鈥� seemed too impersonal for such an heirloom-type task.

Then Mom remembered the recipe box.

And that Gramma Edie used to make the best apple pies.

It was a memory that was intimately hers and vaguely her daughters鈥�. We were too young to remember the cinnamon spice or the sweetness of the apples or the way she would make extra crust to bake into pieces and sprinkle with sugar when the pies were done, but our mother did.

And most certainly, so did our dad.

So we dove into the recipe with the unreasonable confidence of amateurs and spent the afternoon in my kitchen, peeling apples, bouncing the baby, and rolling and re-rolling out Gramma鈥檚 paradoxically named 鈥淣o Fail Pie Crust,鈥� laughing and cheering a victory cheer as we finally successfully transferred it to the top of the pie using four hands and three spatulas, certain this wasn鈥檛 our grandmother鈥檚 technique.

Wondering how she might have done it.

Little Sister carved a heart in the top to make it look more presentable. We put the pie in the oven, set the timer, and hoped for the best.

We fed the baby and gave her a bath. We watched my nephew demonstrate his ninja moves. We talked and poured a drink. We cleared the counter for supper. We put the baby to bed.

And then we pulled the pie from the oven. We marveled at our work. We decided it looked beautiful, that we might declare it a huge success, but first, we should see what Dad thinks.

So we dished him up a piece. It crumbled into a pile on his plate, not pie-shaped at all. But he closed his eyes and took a bite and declared it just the right amount of cinnamon, the apples not too hard, the crust like he remembered 鈥� not pretty, but good.

We served ourselves and ate up around that old table. We thought of our grandma, wondered if she might have given us a little help, and put the recipe back in the box right next to her memory and the new one we made.

And we closed the lid.

Grandma鈥檚 recipe can be found in my book, 鈥淐oming Home,鈥� available for purchase on my website