I love this time of year, apple time. For a day or two or three, I reminisce of other places in time, simpler places and less complicated times. It all started over 50 years ago when I watched my grandmother peel apples to make an apple pie. I was spellbound watching the peeling coils fall into a pan, and I never forgot. Thirty years later, when I was a young mother of three little boys, I wanted to go back. I didn’t want some of these domestic skills (or in my opinion this art) to be forgotten. So I asked my mother to gather up the family apple butter recipe and come and visit for a few days. She brought all the necessary equipment along with the recipe and I learned what made up a bushel and half bushel of apples, became acquainted with a ricer and the manual work associated with it, and finally felt the satisfaction of hearing my jars filled with precious treasure seal with a ping. The day started early and ended late but has always been the most rewarding job I have ever known. What started as a novelty idea turned into my own ritual over the next several years – this time of year – autumn. I made apple butter/apple jelly gift baskets as Christmas presents (the boys loved both), and somehow this annual ritual eventually turned into fundraisers for church and little league baseball teams – bushels and bushels of apples. It was, indeed, a great deal of work; and after a decade of this and back at work in the corporate world, I decided I simply no longer had the time – to the dismay of many. I “mothballed” the ricer my mother had given me.
A couple of years ago, the boys now off in college, I prepared to move into smaller accommodations. I could not bear to part with my ricer. In fact, finding it packed away deep in a closet, brought back the desire once again to return to simpler times. That fall, I made a trip to the apple orchard and secretly made several batches of the family recipe which I distributed that Christmas. Everyone was thrilled. Last year, I was consumed writing Reflections. Some people suggested that I simplify the process, but I could not bring myself to do that. I would do it the way I was taught or not do it at all. In many ways, it is therapeutic; and I feel I am honoring my heritage.
A couple of weeks ago, I set out for a day trip to a small rural town’s fall festival. Main Street was blocked off; entertainers performed on the courthouse steps; craftsmen and women displayed their talents; and, yes, there were apples from a nearby apple orchard. This time I purchased a modest bushel. The next weekend, I unpacked my ricer and returned to my roots. Soon the smell of apples and cinnamon filled the house. My body experienced a few more aches than it did when I was thirty something. But as I headed up the stairs to bed that night, I heard the final jar “ping” and somehow the aches didn’t matter. You know what? I think I smiled a little more that week. Perhaps I worked out a bit of stress, and my joy from completing a project the old-fashioned way brought a satisfaction that my laptop couldn’t match. Yes, I think I’ll just have to keep that old ricer and the wooden grinder too! Thank you Mammy!
(Addressed in “Reflections” Chapter 6)
Enjoyed the story .. I remember Mom making apple butter and pies… They were great
I’ve tasted your apple butter. Thanks something so special–the apple butter and your sweet memories.
Your descriptions are so lovely Debbie. What a wonderful memory and I am so happy for all of your amazing accomplishments!
Thank you for the comments. There are three versions to this story. This was the original blog which I elaborated into a short story during our writers’ session a few years ago and submitted to a magazine, at which time I hid the blog within my website. That short story was subsequently published by “Farm & Ranch Living” (a much-shorter version) so I released the original blog for viewing.