We went apple picking on the weekend. It was one of those magical fall days where the sun is warm, the shade cool. Here, in North East Pennsylvania, the colours are approaching their peak, meaning there is plenty of green in between vivid yellows and reds, which makes for a lovely contrast.
The apples played hide and seek with us, invisible behind thick clusters of green leaves until we passed by. Then a flash of red or yellow would catch our eye. Upon turning around, we would wonder how we had missed so many apples.
When we got home, we wondered why we had picked so many apples.
I ate three; they taste amazing right off the tree, all warm from the sun and free of any polishing wax. A dust off and they’re ready to eat. But, what to do with the other sixty?
My husband made a pie. Much to my annoyance, I was not allowed to eat any of it on Sunday night. It had to cool, he said. Set or something. It’s sitting on the counter now, calling to me—crust all golden and pushed up at the centre because there are so many apples hidden inside. I’ll get a slice tonight, or he will be finding somewhere else to live.