Every Fall, I think back
to a time years ago when I took the kids to an orchard to pick our own apples. Some
friends of mine knew how to can and preserve them, and were willing to teach
me.
Channeling my inner Martha
Stewart sounded like a good idea.
I picked a beautiful
September day; we got in our 15 year old, beat up mini-van that made more noise
than Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and headed to Bob White Acres. The kids each
grabbed a bushel, and off we went. The first took no time to fill, but after
their second bushel, the kids began to get tired. Aubrie had hers about half
full, while Elyse had two or three apples in her basket.
Boy put his bushel on his
head, found a stick which he waved wildly, and began running around breathing
heavily, screaming, “Luke, I’m your father!”
With visions of apple
goodness dancing in my head, I pressed on and dragged the kids from grove to
grove.
We got home and Matt got a
look at our van full of apples. He figured we’d get a few bushels; he had no idea
I was going to turn into Martha Stewart - on crack. But I’ve done worse, so he
just started carrying the massive quantities of apples and deposited them on
the deck.
Being an apple picking
novice, I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to keep the different varieties
separated. I can cook, but no one has ever accused me of being a baker. I knew
that Granny Smith apples were tart, but thought that all red apples were sweet.
Turns out, red apples can
be tart and green apples can be sweet. I also learned that some apples make
terrific pies, but don’t make the best applesauce; and some apples are better
for eating because they don’t soften after cooking. I stood on my deck, glaring
at the mountain of apples and not having an idea of which was which. Since I’m
not known for patience, I decided to press on. What’s the worst that could
happen?
Unfortunately, I have a
gift for finding out what the worst is.
I started out by making
one of my kids favorites – applesauce. I peeled, chopped, cooked and mashed.
But I couldn’t quite get all the apples mashed, and instead of being sweet, the
sauce had an unpleasant tangy sourness to it. I kept adding sugar to the batch,
but soon, I had an overly sweet, crunchy mess that had enough sugar in it to
rot the kids’ teeth in one sitting. Into the trash it went.
Next I tried apple cider;
that, too, didn’t turn out. It was too sweet, too sour or too thick. Not
wanting to throw in the towel, I stored it in the pantry until I had the
patience to strain it a little better or add more sugar. Months later, I
stumbled upon it and took a giant swig.
And that’s when I found
out where vinegar comes from.
I had better success with
pies, because with the right amount of sugar, cinnamon and raisins, just about
anything can be tasty. But in the end, we ended up eating a lot of apples; a
LOT of apples. By spring time, I’d had my fill of apples and wouldn’t have
cared if I saw or ate another one again.
It’s been many years;
enough that I can now look back on the great apple picking debacle and laugh.
I’ve learned the differences between them, and have even begun eating them
again. But now, if I want apple sauce, I go to the grocery store and pick it
straight from their shelves.
To quote ol’ Martha,
that’s a good thing.
