“Almost all wild apples are handsome. They cannot be too gnarly and crabbed and rusty to look at. The gnarliest will have some redeeming traits even to the eye.” — Henry David Thoreau, Wild Apples
“Anyone can count the seeds in an apple, but only God can count the number of apples in a seed.” — Robert H. Schuller
Mom and Dad have a lovely little apple tree in the front yard. Spring arrives with the wonder “Is this the year it will produce apples?” The seasons’ progress can bring any number of events that sabotage the fall harvest. Frost on the blossoms, the late arrival of pollinators, not enough, or too much rain, or sun, insects, birds, hail, wind, bears, deer, early frost. Late July the tree was laden, Dad was considering it time to get the electric fence up to discourage the bears and deer from consuming the ripening fruit. (He wires it directly into the overhead hydro supply to the house…) Three days later it proved to be unnecessary. A huge storm rolled through, one of the most intense I have ever experienced while in the home of my childhood. More about that in a forthcoming blog. The next morning arrived with most of the apples resting, soft green globes in emerald grass. My sister collected them. She and Mom pealed and cored and baked an Apple Betty (Crumble) out of them. The fruit was not nearly mature enough, the finished dessert presented leathery fruit, cinnamon flavoured, blanketed between buttery oatmeal and brown sugar. A valiant attempt to put the fallen fruit to good purpose. We all tried a portion, but most was still waiting in the pan when we left a three days later. Maybe next year?
A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in a setting of silver.