Only one tree grows on our property, not counting the city’s
tree on the boulevard which casts lovely shade to the south side of our house. Our
own backyard tree is a Pembina Plum that has blessed us with luscious fruit each year until
this one. We think this year’s late frosts finished them off at the blossoming
stage, and so the tree stands decked out in green simplicity.
But that’s okay. The tree probably needed a year off. And,
as yummy as those plums taste, it can be a pain to try to pick or catch them
before they litter the ground. In fact, I took advantage of this year’s lull to
pick up a couple of pails full of old pits from the crushed rock below.
Judging by my neighbour’s apple tree, though, it’s going to
be an abundant year for apples. During our time at Skerwood Mobile Home Park,
we were fortunate to have an apple tree growing on our lot. For six seasons, we
picked as many off the ground as we did from the tree. I felt a little
disappointed last time I drove by to see the apple tree is now gone.
My best memory of those apples happened in 2005, before I
started eating more healthfully. Nowadays, I would turn them into unsweetened
applesauce to use in my homemade granola, fruit salad, and oat bars. Then,
though, making pies seemed like a sensible thing to do.
But not all by myself. Having filled five or six large
boxes with apples, I invited my friend Gayle and her two lovely daughters for a
pie-making fest. I would provide the fruit and the air-conditioned kitchen.
They would supply the other ingredients. We’d all chip in on the labour and
split the pies for our respective freezers.
The day turned out to be so much fun, I wrote a poem and
have resurrected it for its tenth birthday, to share with you here. Happy fruit
season!
The
Happiest, Appliest Day
The apple tree bowed to the
ground with its load.
I picked and I plucked ‘til I
thought I’d explode!
How would I grapple with all of
this fruit?
I needed some help to transmute
all the loot.
I promised adventure and thrills
beyond measure
For all who’d assist with no show
of displeasure.
Then three favorite redheads
showed up at my door
To tackle the apples arranged on
the floor.
Two sisters, their mother, the
apples, and me
A warm autumn day, what fun this could
be!
We cleared off the counters, the
table, the sink
And cranked up the music too
loudly to think.
I was the pastry chef, ready and
willing.
Gayle was peeling, and Alison
filling.
Veronica fluttered from station
to station
Now peeling, now tasting in
anticipation.
The flour was flying, the rolling
pin rolled.
The peelings were reeling, the
cinnamon gold.
Like a well-oiled skillful
precision machine
We worked till we reached pie
number thirteen.
We stopped for some lunch in the
mess, what a scene!
Then onward and upward, to pie
seventeen.
Now nineteen, now twenty, we kept
on a-going
The sugar was shaking, the apple
juice flowing.
What would we run out of first,
time or flour?
Apples or pie plates or
shortening or power?
With Pie thirty-five we declared
the job done
Cleaned up the kitchen and called
it all fun.
Then Veronica, Alison, Gayle and
I
Treated ourselves to—what else?
Apple Pie!
My “V” key is sticking on my keyboard. Oh no. Can’t have
that! I take out a can of air and spray down the whole laptop. It helps,
somewhat. I change the name of my main character from “Vicki” to “Doris” just
in case.
