Apple season is usually on its way out before I think to go to the orchard. Prime picking time is late summer when we are still bringing in tomatoes, but the two fruits gathered together on the kitchen counter look incongruous. Tomatoes are cicada songs and fireflies and sweat and heat and too-late- bedtimes. But apples? When the air is crisp and I must dig through my drawer for a sweater, then I am ready for apples.
This morning, after driving past a neighborhood farm stand with a hand-painted A P P L E S sign, I call my husband and a plan is hatched. In the afternoon when he gets off work, the four of us head to a local orchard, one that is in the middle of nowhere and is never very crowded; it is our favorite.
The trees are still heavy with fruit, and we sample a few before settling on one and filling our baskets. I make plans as we pick: a pie, galette, applesauce for the boys. I silently thank the trees for their bounty, for the autumn made incarnate we are harvesting. When are baskets are full, we linger for a bit.
What a good season we are in. I feel full and so very grateful.