A rose by any other name would smell as sweet—that is, unless it’s in pie form.
What appeared to be a delightfully different variation to an American classic turned out to be an absolute embarrassment. The pin I found, Apple Pie of Roses, seemed like a doable recipe on the surface and even looked as tasty as it did too pretty to eat.
What a joke.
My bake ware has been soaking for a few days now to get rid of the sticky-sweet crust that burned permanently into my grandmother’s baking dish—a wedding gift to her 63 years ago, no less.
