There was nothing our family enjoyed more than our summers at Grandma Ferrell’s farm in West Virginia. The homestead sat on the top of a picturesque mountain with a creek running next to it. The farm itself was a bit rundown, but beautiful to me, with plenty of flower and vegetable gardens and dozens of chickens running about. There was always plenty of fine storytelling, bluegrass music and delicious, homegrown food to share at the farm. I loved to watch my grandmother work magic in the kitchen; her biscuits and gravy were legendary but her apple pie was my favorite.   The apple filling was tart, yet sweet, and the crumb topping was buttery with just a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon. I can still see Grandma and me on her porch swing, peeling apples and listening to her recall tall tales of her childhood. Those were the days.