Ahhh, September, time of warm days, cool nights, golden corn, and apples. Apples are everywhere on my facebook feed. Kids in apple t-shirts picking apples at an apple orchard, riding apple-themed carnival rides, eating apple cider donuts while drinking apple cider. It makes me want some apple brandy or something. Seriously! When did apple-picking become THE not-to-miss fall adventure? When did something so simple and basic as buying fresh apples from the grower become a contrived extravaganza? Why do I feel like a slacker parent if my child’s apples come from the grocery store, not hand-picked for $25 on a sunny September day in a picturesque orchard and posted on facebook, twitter, and instagram?
OK, maybe I’m a little cranky and a little harsh. Shouldn't I applaud the parents having a wholesome outing with their kids? Isn’t it admirable that people want to connect with the places their food is grown? Isn’t it a positive trend to buy locally and support local growers? Yes, yes, and Yes. But, I’m still cranky. See, I know about freshly picked apples, from way back.
My childhood Septembers were also apple-heavy. There was the church apple fritter stand at the town festival. If I have ever eaten a piece of heaven, it is a cored, sliced, tart, fresh apple, dipped in batter, deep fried, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. The ladies of First Mennonite Church of Sugarcreek guard the batter recipe with their very lives. Those apple fritters have caused me to drive 400 miles one way to indulge in them. There was also the apple butter my mother’s family boils every fall. As I kid, I played in the leaves while parent, aunts, uncles, and grandparents boiled apple butter in a cauldron big enough to boil a few of the grandchildren. By tradition, the oldest woman adds the spoonful of cinnamon. When I was a kid, it was my Great-grandma Smith. Now, it’s my own mother. We would come home with enough jars of canned apple butter to last until next fall. So, trust me, I know about the joy treats made from fall apples.
I also know the joy of picking fresh apples from a tree. Growing up, if we wanted some apples during September, we walked out to the northeast corner of the pasture. Some previous farmer had planted a few apple trees that yielded the little red and yellow kind. I used to ride my horse out to pick them and feed him the cores when I was done. They were lumpy and small and I had to watch out for worms and rotten parts. But, the taste of them on my tongue--tart and sweet, crunchy and juicy--that was the taste of the end of summer. So, I know the beauty of an apple just liberated from its tree.
I guess it bugs me that my natural childhood memories, picking fruit because it was there, making special treats to raise money, and canning to preserve for the rest of the year, are now hijacked by themed t-shirts and carnival rides. We celebrated apples in September because that is when the fruit came in, so that’s when it affected our lives in my rural community. It was work, not entertainment. Today, it seems so contrived to me, so artificial, and so compulsory. After all, are my slacker ways are costing my kids a great "apple experience"? Will they be mad at my if there aren't any pictures of them in apple t-shirts, picking apples from a tree, with their little faces covered in apple donut?
Perhaps I am missing the point. Bravo to the smart farmers and orchard owners who thought of this. Maybe I should get on the bandwagon. As a matter of fact, I should put my mind to it. If my family could come up with some cute hay-bale themed t-shirts, some hay-bale carnival rides, and treats like haystacks or something, maybe we could sell admission when the hay comes in. People could pay $2 for the chance to lift and stack the hay bales into the mow. Throwing them from the wagon costs $3, and it’s only for people over 40 inches tall. Why stop at stacking hay? For just an extra $5, people could spend 10 minutes shoveling fertilizer. They could have the experience of spreading it on the fields, or take it home for their own gardens. We would supply the pitchforks and shovels, and you can take as much as you can carry. I wonder what kind of shirts I could sell for that?
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