Wednesday, September 30, 2009

The Picturesque Picking of Apples

Every fall, my family has a date with destiny. At Maskers Orchards. It is very picturesque, see?

Here's how it goes down:

I (unpictured, as always because hey, someone needs to operate the camera), take a shitload of pictures.

Seconda eats a shitload of apples -- without, I might add, bothering to polish off the pesticides.

Primo picks a shitload of apples, each with painstaking care. He is in charge of Quality Control and he is exacting.

David does everything else, including lifting children for high-altitude picking, changing baby's diapers, and caring for kids in general, while I take pictures and enjoy the fresh air.

David also carries the monumentally mammoth bag of apples. This year, though, he began the young one's apprenticeship.

Now I have enough apples to feed a small village. I should donate them to a small village, in fact, because what inevitably happens is David says we should make a deep dish apple pie and I say, sure, but there's no way I am peeling allllll of those apples AND making homemade pie crust, too. Its one or the other. And fresh apple pie with frozen piecrust, well, I won't say its garbage, but its a lot of coring and slicing for a sub-par pie experience. So then David says HE'LL make the pie crust and I say I won't hold my breath. Which I don't, thankfully, since it never happens, because even when he gets as far as checking recipes, he remembers we don't have the Cuisinart thing requisure for pie-crust making. So then we figure its best to just eat the apples, fresh and raw, like God intended -- I mean, advised us not too. Except by that point the apples are no longer fresh. So I give them to my grandmother who then eats a lot of apples for a long time, since she lived through the war and knows the meaning of an empty stomach. How do you like them apples?