Contemplating the Apple

           There is nothing so joyous as that first bite into an apple: that crunch as my teeth crash through the tight, tart skin of the apple, followed by the sluice of sweet juice and aromatic burst of apple freshness. As I stand in the kitchen gobbling a flavorful, rosy red apple, an image of my father is conjured up.

There he is, sitting in his recliner, skinning an apple from pole to pole with a paring knife. His capable hand guides the knife round and round the fruit to produce a long ribbon of red apple skin, almost translucent because so little of the apple flesh was skimmed away. I have never been able to replicate his method. Instead, I quarter and core the apples before peeling, as I was taught in home economics class. Even so, my results are rough and wasteful by comparison. No child will ever sit at my knee, as I did with at my father’s, and watch in amazement as the ribbons of beauteous red unravel to the waiting newspaper below. I used to sit there expectantly, and when the ribbon would break, as it occasionally did, I would grab the snippets to munch on. He would cut chunks from the hand-held fruit. I would always get a few pieces of the apple he had prepared for himself, along with a smile that let me know he enjoyed my company.

When my mother made applesauce, it was my father who removed the apple skins. Neither my mother nor I possessed his knife skills. Peels would become a deep, winter pile of red to be raked up.  I would join my mother in the kitchen, where we cut and cored the apples, added a few teaspoons of water, and gently heated the generous pot. When the apples were soft and then cooled, we’d use a big spoon to vigorously mash the lumps, and mix in sweetener and a squeeze of lemon. It was fine warm, but even better cold.

Homemade applesauce is nothing like jarred applesauce (whose most exciting attribute is the “pop” when the vacuum seal on the container is broken). Home-made applesauce is a complex essence of the apples or apple varieties from which it is made. No Mott’s can approach the depth and fusion of flavors. No mass-produced product manages the marriage of thick and thin, fibrous and smooth. No bottled blandness beats the color of fresh.  Applesauce made with the skin on delivers a deep, rosy-complexioned dessert; with cinnamon, a tawny hued offering; with no additions, a pale pink product. My mother and I would taste the result of our efforts, and nod to each other with mutual approval of a pot of goodness done well.

When I contemplate apples, they are much more than a tasty fruit for me to enjoy. They are a conduit to the memories of generosity and affection from parents who shared the fruits of their labor and the fruits of their love with me.

Marsha H.

12/24/20