We ran out of fresh picked apples last week so I bought some “local” (New England but not from Maine) “apples” from the grocery. Those mealy imposters were shameful! I was reminded that “local” is often used very liberally to extend to surrounding states hundreds of miles away and does not mean picked yesterday, last week or even in the past month. It’s the same with grocery tomatoes. After I tasted home grown I couldn’t go back to those hard waxy pale orange replicas. Wayne agrees, so it’s for those reasons that we went apple picking this morning in thirty degree weather. It’s the last weekend for picking apples at our favorite orchard, Libby & Son U-Picks, and it turned out to be filled with simple beauty.
The remaining apples were all towards the tree tops. This forced me to look up and see them in a new light.
The sunshine on the golden leaves was so pretty!
The orchard was extremely quiet, too. It was so peaceful.
The blueberry fields had turned crimson.
We picked many big and beautiful apples.
Nineteen pounds at only .99 a pound! It was hard walking away from the remaining apples. I wanted to pick them all and magically save and savor them through the winter in their crisp, crunchy, juicy fresh-from-the tree state. It’s that whole shelf-life thing that always messes with trying to hoard the ephemeral.