My household has changed since we brought home roughly 1/4 of a bushel of apples last Sunday. Most notably, it smells like there’s 10 pounds of apples slowly fermenting in the drafty conditions of their indoor environs. They sit in a bag on the dining room table, taunting us with their impelling need to be consumed. The sheer abundance has led me to do crazy things, like almost add a few to Monday night’s soup of leftovers, and interrogate poor Mr. P daily about his apple consumption. “You forgot? I ate two apples today, and two yesterday. You better start pitching in. mister. My intestinal tract can’t handle this by myself.”
Making matters worse, we picked what appears to be kinda lousy apples. Some weren’t ripe, some are mealy or tart, others are riddled with disease and scars. What looked and tasted okay in the orchard is suddenly unappealing when there’s yummy, flawless supermarket grapes and pears in the refrigerator.
There are a few gems. As always, the late-season Cortlands are my favorite: A yielding but firm texture, not too sweet, not too tart. And this year, we got a real surprise with the pink-fleshed, yellow-skinned beauty pictured to the right, which is sweet and crisp as a Hershey’s Crackle bar. Research leads me to suspect it’s actually called a Surprise apple, although the orchard didn’t list these on their map. Why aren’t there more of these? What an effective tool for parents trying to push apples over all the faux-colored snack foods.
As my enthusiasm for eating raw apples wanes, I’m strategizing usage for the remaining 7 pounds or so. Last year we made pies, but pies don’t use that many apples. So we’ll probably throw them all in the juicer. Because one apple a day might keep the doctor away, but two apples a day is making me ill.
