We have apple pie for dinner and I don’t care.
It is time. Past time, really.
She is pregnant—heavy with fruit and we harvest late, letting nature have her choice before we do. Some of our pickings have already been tasted by crows or squirrels or another sneaky creature that sat high in her branches and nibbled delicately.These fall easily when the tree is shaken, but Jeffrey has to go after others.I toss the discards over the fence or balance them precariously on the posts– remembering the deer that come to spy.
He is no stranger to the tree and she cups him gently–swaying leaves brushing cheek like a mamma. It was he who wished for her, longed for her until one day he said to me–the mamma who can’t resist planting love, I want an apple tree.
We found a dwarf variety and planted it on the side of the house. Just right for this suburban family.
He remembered the days when we would take our basket to the meadow and fill it with sweet rounds and plump pears and wildflowers along the way. Now the meadow is sold—fenced off– the sweet woman who owned it retiring in a personal care home and her meticulous grasses grown wild and wily up around the trees.
I would never make it on the prairie, I tell Jeff, as I roll and peel and search for the perfect recipe.
He just kisses the back of my neck.
When it takes all day to make a couple pies, who can think about dinner?
We had apple pie for dinner. And I didn’t even care.