Apple Time

Michigan apples. Ah, Michigan apples. You may be smaller and duller than those fancy waxed apples shipped from Washington in trucks coughing exhaust into the crisp October air, but you are oh so sweet and unassuming, perfectly proportioned, and humble enough to be useful. You call out to me, "Turn me into applesauce and apple pie!"

So I do.


And here's a little Robert Frost for your Friday reading pleasure . . .

The Cow in Apple Time

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.