A. and I like to joke that whenever the two of us are in the same place, everything goes wrong: we take the wrong turn on the trail, we end up an hour further down the road than we need to be for the u-pick orchard, the wifi doesn't work in the cafe, the apple trees are picked over or the apples are spotted.
I looked up u-pick orchards on the internet, and it told me that the nearest one was north of Next City to the North, only that was a lie. There was one much closer, but finding it required internet (my new ipod touch failed me) and a phone call and then re-tracing our steps many miles back south.
We were spoiled in Michigan, A. and I, where the apple orchards are plentiful and bounteous. I suspect there was a frost here this spring, this long, cold spring, because nearly every apple had brown spots on it where the skin seemed to have been rumpled up. A. dug through the brown rumpled part and reached apparently normal apple flesh underneath, so we picked some of the ones with fewer spots and mocked ourselves for being wimpy modern North Americans. A hundred and fifty years ago, we would have been thrilled with those rumply apples.
"I'm going to make applesauce!" A. said, "and apple pie!"
"Let's make apple pie next Saturday afternoon," I said.
"I thought you didn't like cooked fruit," she said.
"Well, yes. That is true. But let's bake apple pie and then invite people over to eat it!"
I looked up u-pick orchards on the internet, and it told me that the nearest one was north of Next City to the North, only that was a lie. There was one much closer, but finding it required internet (my new ipod touch failed me) and a phone call and then re-tracing our steps many miles back south.
We were spoiled in Michigan, A. and I, where the apple orchards are plentiful and bounteous. I suspect there was a frost here this spring, this long, cold spring, because nearly every apple had brown spots on it where the skin seemed to have been rumpled up. A. dug through the brown rumpled part and reached apparently normal apple flesh underneath, so we picked some of the ones with fewer spots and mocked ourselves for being wimpy modern North Americans. A hundred and fifty years ago, we would have been thrilled with those rumply apples.
"I'm going to make applesauce!" A. said, "and apple pie!"
"Let's make apple pie next Saturday afternoon," I said.
"I thought you didn't like cooked fruit," she said.
"Well, yes. That is true. But let's bake apple pie and then invite people over to eat it!"
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