Though I didn’t say it out loud, it was the first time I’ve been apple picking like this. I’d never been to the valley before - my travels here were always to the other side of the province - and certainly I’d never gone to a u-pick for apples. Apples? You buy those at the grocery store. They’re a local crop. Why would I pay someone so I can pick my own apples, when I can pay a little less for a bag that I wanted?
But I was invited to go, and I very much wanted to spend time with my nephews, who are now on either side of me in the backseat of the car. One has asked to hold my hand as my sister-in-law drives; I gather holding hands is one of his important things right now. Later I will convince him to go back to the garage by suggesting we hold hands. He is delighted.
My other nephew is filming the side of the road as we whip by it, adding the latest examples of his cinematography to my storage. He will want to go through my bag, which I let him do. I give these boys pretty much whatever they want. That’s my job, as an auntie.
In the backyard of my parents’ house is an old apple tree. It’s bent under the weight of its branches, and an old piece of wood, painted white, supports the trunk and keeps it up. I once asked my dad if he thought the tree could stand without it now, and he said he didn’t think he’d be able to remove the plank anymore, since it’s now part of the tree. He used to use a rope to tie the tree to our long-downed fence, a casualty of a hurricane one year.
The apples on the tree have a bright yellow-green skin, and are very, very sour. But they grow to a good size and are passable in pies. My mother sends me outside to pick a bowl of apples for my father to turn into a pie. I take the largest mixing bowl, its shiny metal surface growing hot in the sun as I place apples into it.
I have always known how to pick apples, it seems. I remember my dad showing me what it looked like when a worm was in an apple, and to skip those. I fill the bowl with good apples, free of blemishes, and go ask my mom to come get the bowl. It’s too heavy for me to lift now.
I will pick strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries with my dad, at u-picks and in fields we know. We like fresh fruit in our house. But we only ever pick apples from the tree in the yard. After a poor year for apples, we stop. They aren’t that good. It will be more than twenty years before I sit in the car to go to the valley.
”We’re going to have a crabapple eating contest,” my cousin announces. “Like in The Story Girl.”
This is met with assent from all and we set out across their yard to the biggest crabapple tree. Immediately, we’re confronted with a problem. The tree is over the brook that borders their yard. It’s not positioned all that well for someone to climb up, nor are any of us tall enough to reach the apples we can see. The issue only halts is for a second; another of my cousins picks up a stick and tosses it up. A few apples fall to the ground. Victory.
We spend what seems like hours knocking apples down and trying to eat them without making faces. We pick some cherries off a nearby tree - normally quite sour themselves, they’re sweet in our tart-dry mouths.
Eventually, an adult will find out we’ve eaten a bunch of these crabapples, of unknown quality. We will be scolded about getting sick. None of us do, and later, we will repeat the exercise at our family home in Cape Breton, with another crabapple tree, and the raspberries from our grandmother’s bushes.
We pull into the u-pick. A small bag is too small, we pay for a medium and follow the directions to drive down the side of the orchard. No honeycrisps back here - I saw them on the way in. Here we have Macintosh, Gravenstein, and Cortland. My nephews ask if they can eat apples, and we all pick a first apple to eat. A sun-warmed Macintosh is sweet and juicy in my mouth, and I hold my youngest nephew’s hand, as we walk amongst the trees. He insists on carrying his own apples after he picks a few, his little hands straining to hold four apples.
I show my older nephew a few good spots I’ve noticed for picking. Quickly we fill the bag with a variety of apples; my sister-in-law will make a pie. We attempt to take some pictures, and I eat a Gravenstein, redder and sweeter than a Macintosh.
The apple picking doesn’t fill that much time of our outing. We put the bag into the car, and decide to go look at the rest of the farm. My youngest nephew clutches his apples to his chest.
I learned about all of the different kinds of apples when I started working at the grocery store. Previously, apples came in 5lb bags, whatever was on sale. Sometimes apples would come in baskets from the little stand over by the Co-Op. My dad will tell me as an adult that he once explained to his coworkers that a family of five can plow through food like nobody’s business. “Well, there’s five of us. We each eat an apple a day, roughly, so that’s thirty-five apples a week.” There are two bags of apples in the crisper. Sometimes Red Delicious, usually Macintosh or Gravenstein. Granny Smith and Yellow Delicious make occasional appearances.
But at my cash, I learn about all of the apples you can buy that don’t come in 5lb bags. Pink Lady, Fuji, Jonagold, Ambrosia. I buy a new apple as part of my lunch every weekend shift. I devour them all.
I am almost thirty-two years old, and a few weeks ago, I realized that I don’t actually like biting into round fruits. I never have, but it was the thing you graduated into when you stopped being young enough to have your parents cut your fruit up. I cut mine by myself for a few years, but then I stopped. Why? I can cut up my apples if I want to, this is my house. These are my honeycrisps. The price of my 4lb bag of honeycrisps has jumped like everything else this year, and grocery shopping, a thing I’ve always enjoyed, has had all the joy sucked out of it. Why should I not enjoy the food I do have the way I want?
I take my battered paring knife out of the drawer. I bought this knife set from Walmart in 2011. It is not good. But it still works for this. I slice my apple into a little bowl, and bring it into the living room.
I eat at least one apple a day, sometimes two. At least seven apples a week. I buy 3-4lb bags; the 5lb bag seems to have vanished from my regular grocery store. But there are more options for my bags of apples now, and I only buy loose when there’s a new cultivar to try. When I’m not feeling well, I eat unsweetened apple sauce, which I also bring to work with my lunch.
I think about reaching up to the tree branches for my apples. Maybe I’ll go pick more apples next year.
I LOVE THIS! Your writing is so tender Alison. This must go into your collection and when it comes out in a book, will you sign it for me? The way you’ve incorporated your young nephews, your own childhood, apples - past and present - is beautifully done! 👏 Brava
I just love how you quilt together these soft pieces of memory and new experiences into pure comfort. 🥰