Apples to Apples

"Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree." Martin Luther

 

As I sit here at my kitchen counter, helicopters swirl overhead. Protesters occupy the Greenway just in front of the Federal Reserve building and steps from our first pair of Boston Tree Party apple trees. It's a beautiful Indian Summer day, too warm really for this time of year, and it's Columbus Day. We get a holiday to sleep late or catch a sale, watch the Head of the Charles. For us, we celebrate the wedding seven years ago now that will forever eclipse things like sales, protests and such.

I've got apple-cucumber pickles in the fridge and three apples left in my bowl. Last night we had marrow bones from Batchelder Farms with parsley salad, and Kimball Farms' Brussels sprouts leaves roasted with apple and bacon (see Virginia Willis' Basic to Brilliant, Y'all for the recipe). Crispy, sweet, salty, tart and bitter. Oh, and unctuous fat. Heaven.

In my fruit bowl: a Pink Pearl (who knew it's not always an eraser?), a Northern Spy, and a Mutsu. I am identifying the apples using the handy primer on pages 31 through 60 of Amy Traverso's delightful Apple Lover's Cookbook. My copy is already stained and I just bought it Saturday, a good sign. I bought the book at Kitchenwares and was gifted a bag of these antique apples, picked by Jennifer Hill herself at Smolak Farms.

So now as the protesters chant and drum, the helicopters swirl, let me invite you to reflect on the beauty of apples.

They are democratic and must cross-pollinate to bear fruit.

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