Before moving to New York, I didn't know what the big deal was with apple picking. Like, what, you just pick apples? Off of a tree? How is that a family event?
Back in Texas, at least in Central Texas where I grew up, we did not have apple orchards. We did not have fields upon fields of Red Deliciousness ripe for the picking. Ne'er had I tasted an apple cider donut. These things were but legend to me.
But since moving here, I have to say: I get it. Guys, apple picking is amazing. Seriously, I don't know who wouldn't like it. Not a year has gone by since I became a New York state resident in which I have not picked an apple from a tree with my bare hands. There is just something so satisfying about heading north out of the city, driving past colorful fall foliage, parking your car in a big open lot, being handed a plastic bag by a man in overalls, and marveling as he points to a vast field of apple trees and says, "All of this can be yours."
Now, if you've never apple-picked before, you might be surprised to know that it can actually be quite an athletic event, especially if you go later in the season. At the beginning of apple season, all of the smart, prepared people come and pick the apples that are within reach. Later, the rest of us have to either maneuver a wieldy pole with a basket attached or actually climb the trees to get our desired fruits. It's work.
Climbing, however, is not usually encouraged at most apple orchards. There are rules against it. In fact, there are a surprising number of rules when it comes to apple picking. No climbing, no throwing, no canoodling behind a granny smith tree, no stealing someone's bag of apples when they are not looking and replacing it with a sack of potatoes.
But arguably the most loathed rule when apple picking is no eating. I mean, what the hell? How do you expect me to labor my life away in a gorgeous field of apple trees and not have a bite of at least one apple? Eve couldn't do it, and neither can I.
That's why, this year, my hubs and I wanted whichever orchard we picked to be the equivalent of a nude beach -- that is to say, we wanted to go to the orchard with the least number of rules (I hope I didn't make it sound like we wanted to pick apples in the nude. That just sounds painful).
As a result, this last weekend, we ended up at Applewood, an orchard between the small hamlets of Warwick and Sugar Loaf (I kid you not. That adorable town was actually named Sugar Loaf. You can't make this stuff up).
And we had quite the time.
|That feeling when you realize nothing on God's green earth |
can compare to the glory that is apple picking.
After a long day of apple-picking, we usually we end up taking an impressive bounty home, which honestly just ends up rotting in our refrigerator. I mean, let's face it: apples are fine, but they aren't, like, amazing. While the process of picking them is as exhilarating as, I assume, a coked up ride on Disneyland's Space Mountain, the actual eating of the apples is just...aight. You have a couple and you're pretty good.
But this year, we decided to not be wasteful little jerks, and instead we turned our apple spoils into THIS:
I'd say that the fact that I turned these apples into a pie instead of letting them rot means that I'm getting more responsible, but then again, I also ate this pie for breakfast, so who's to say?