Apples, apples and apples. I think I will never tired of the smell of an apple baking in something – a pie, a crumble, a crisp, a cake, sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg. Sometimes, I feel as if I’m baking not for the final product, but for the sweet, deep aromas that emanate from the oven. In my small apartment, the smell wafts throughout the space, unforgiving, permeating every corner. In that rest period when the dessert is baking and I’m washing all my bowls and spatulas, I inhale deeply, taking in not those soapy suds but the smell of fall. Fall = apples. And bourbon and rosemary go hand in hand with them, don't you think?

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