I grew up in Helsinki, Finland, in what felt like a very typical Finnish way, with both a winter home and a summer home. When the end of May arrived, our family of six would leave the city behind and move to our summer cottage, where we stayed until autumn crept in and school began again after the long summer holidays.

Those childhood summers felt endless in the most beautiful way. I spent them barefoot from sunrise to sunset, completely swallowed up by the simple wonders of the outdoors. There were rivers to swim in, fresh raspberries and strawberries to pick and eat straight from the bush, cubby houses and sandpits to play in, and butterflies and dragonflies to chase through the warm summer air. Life was lived outside, and as a child, it felt as though the whole world was ours.

When my mum cooked on our old-fashioned wood-heated stove, she would send us children out into the yard to fetch fresh dill, new potatoes, or rhubarb. We had no running water and none of the modern conveniences people now consider necessary, yet none of that mattered. We loved that back-to-earth way of life. In many ways, I think it gave us something richer than convenience ever could. It gave us closeness — to nature, to the seasons, and to one another.

My dad was especially proud of our six apple trees, each one a different variety. I can still picture them now, their branches stretching wide as though they were showing off first their spring blossoms and then, later, the abundance of autumn. The apples were red, green, and yellow, all different shapes and sizes, never polished, never perfect. Some had brown spots, some had a wormhole or two, but to me they were real apples — honest apples. There was no need to go to the shop for the shiny ones. All we had to do was reach up and pick one straight from the tree.

Then autumn would arrive, and with it came harvest time. Once we had settled back into our winter home, the annual apple season began in earnest. It was a family effort, a proper working bee, and everyone had a role to play. My grandparents would arrive early each morning and stay until late at night, helping with the picking, sorting, peeling, cooking, and preserving. Looking back, I realise it was my grandmother who seemed to hold it all together. Without fuss or noise, she appeared to know exactly what needed doing and in what order, as though the whole rhythm of those days lived quietly inside her.

Once a year, our kitchen transformed into a sticky, bustling apple-processing plant. Some apples were turned into purée and preserved for apple crumbles, apple pies, or simply to be eaten with vanilla ice cream. Others were juiced, and I still do not know how my grandmother always knew which apples were best for what. Somehow, she just knew. The homemade apple juice was the sweetest I have ever tasted, and all day long the kitchen rang with chatter, laughter, and the noisy hum of the juicer, as though even the machine wanted to join in with the family commotion.

And as if I did not already love autumn enough, the apple processing days were followed by days of baking. Apple cakes, apple pies, baked apple oatmeal, apple jam — one after another, our precious harvest was turned into comfort and goodness. Before long, the freezers were full, ready for the long Finnish winter ahead. There was something deeply satisfying about it all, something grounding and secure. It was as though we were not only preparing food, but storing up warmth, love, and memory for the colder days to come.

But for a little girl like me, the very best part was not the apples themselves. It was sitting beside my grandmother in that busy, warm kitchen, while life moved all around us. Everyone seemed happy. Everyone seemed full of purpose and life. And there, next to her, I felt safe, seen, and deeply loved.

My grandmother had a special gift. She could make me feel as though she had been waiting all week just to see me, and now that I was there, her day was complete. It is one of the most tender feelings I have ever known. Even now, when I think back on those autumn days, it is not only the scent of apples or the sound of the juicer that comes back to me. It is the feeling of belonging. The feeling of being wrapped in warmth, busyness, love, and the quiet comfort of family.

Perhaps that is why those memories still live so strongly inside me. They were never just about harvest time or baking or apples. They were about being held by a world that felt whole and good. They were about the kind of love that did not need to announce itself loudly, because it was there in every small act, every shared task, every full freezer, every warm kitchen chair.

And for me, autumn will always taste a little like apples and love.