Hello, my fellow culinary comrades!
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Here he goes again, off on another gastronomic tangent.” Well, strap in and butter up your reading scones, because today’s post is less about the simmer and more about the soul (but fear not, there will be pie talk, because of priorities).
Let’s set the scene: It’s that time of year when the calendar screams “AUTUMN!” but the weather is more like “LOL, good try.” Despite the meteorological confusion, my wife Stephanie and our son (a.k.a. The Energizer Toddler) are bundled up and buzzing with excitement. We’re off on our yearly apple-picking adventure and trust me, it’s more than just a quaint family outing—it’s the stuff of legend (and mild family embarrassment, but mostly legend).
The drive to the orchard is an event in itself. Picture this: a car filled to the brim with baskets, enthusiasm, and one 4-year-old who believes that the louder he talks about apples, the faster we’ll arrive. His grandparents, the epitome of patience, are nodding along to his apple monologue, throwing in the occasional “Uh-huh” and “Wow!” Stephanie is at the helm, navigating not just the road but also the sea of “Are we there yet?” that’s coming from the backseat.
Upon arrival, the orchard is a sight of pastoral perfection, and we’re greeted by rows upon rows of apple-laden trees. It’s like Mother Nature herself has set the table and we’re all invited to feast. But first, we must forage. Stephanie, in her infinite wisdom, has tasked each of us with finding the ‘perfect’ apple. Easy, right? Wrong. It’s like a bizarre reality show where the contestants (us) are foraging through foliage for that one apple that doesn’t look like it fought a squirrel and lost.
Our son, ever the spirited soul, is on a quest to either find the apples or become one with the tree. He’s taking this whole “apple of my eye” thing a bit too literally. Meanwhile, I’m reaching for the high-hanging fruit, pulling off acrobatic stunts that should honestly be accompanied by a dramatic score. Let’s not forget Stephanie’s parents, who are masters of the ‘sideline commentary’, rating my apple-picking form like it’s an Olympic sport.
The result of our labor? A bushel of apples that is as varied as our family’s personalities. And here’s the part where my food blog cred comes in: What to do with a literal mountain of apples? If you’re thinking, “Probably just make a pie,” I applaud your reasonable deduction. But oh, we are not just pie people—we are pie, tart, fritter, sauce, and butter people.
The kitchen aftermath looks like a culinary crime scene. Flour on the ceiling (don’t ask), cinnamon in the air, and a 4-year-old covered head to toe in what I hope is apple peel. Stephanie, the queen of multitasking, orchestrates this symphony of chaos with a grace that is both awe-inspiring and slightly terrifying.
Let’s talk apple pie. It’s not just a dessert; it’s a vessel for family bonding and the cause of at least two minor kitchen fires (kidding, mostly). Then there’s the apple crisp, which I’m pretty sure is just an excuse to eat spoonfuls of buttery crumble. And the applesauce? Let’s just say it’s a good thing apples are healthy because the amount of sauce we’ve churned out could very well be my son’s main food group for the next month.
As the day winds down and the sugar rush begins to fade, I find myself reflecting on the beauty of it all. Sure, the kitchen’s a disaster and we’ll be finding bits of apple in odd places for weeks, but these are the moments, the messy, wonderful, heart-full moments that make life sweet.
So there you have it, folks. A peek behind the curtain of our apple-picking shenanigans. It’s family, food, and the kind of fun that you can only find when you’re knee-deep in orchard grass, wondering if an apple can actually feel pride.
Stay tuned for my next post, where I might just reveal how to make an apple tart without setting off the smoke alarm (no promises, though).
Until then, keep the crusts buttery and the laughter loud.
Keep peelin’,
Yours Truly,
English 