The art of the orchard, and of letting go

The second apple shipment has arrived, and just in time for the weather to turn grey and rainy and nesty. The colors are pretty close to what I see outside my window now. Lots of trees beginning to turn, other branches already bare, the grass sprinkled with crisp leaves as if someone had emptied out a bag of potato chips on the lawn.

If I learned anything from the last shipment, it was not to judge an apple by its exterior. The prettiest apple of them all turned out to be somewhat disappointing in taste and texture. And the skankiest, most pockmarked runt of them all? Spectacular.

Thus I welcome this new shipment with open arms. All the apples were grown organically. They aren't the beefy Iceberg-lettuce apples we find in our grocery stores. They have spots and lumps and all those things that would naturally happen if we didn't intervene with chemical after chemical. They smell like fall, and carry names like Milden, Red Baron, Sweet Sixteen, and Chestnut.

There's an apple called Red Blaze, which originated from one branch of a tree Francis Fenton had growing on his property in Mercer, Maine. The sample here came from one of the only Red Blaze trees in the world. Apparently if I cut it open I'll see a small red stain by the flower end - hence the name Red Blaze.

Meanwhile, if I cut open the Sweet Sixteen and take a bite, I'm told I'll taste cherry lifesavers and a hint of licorice. [Updated upon sampling: It really does taste like cherry lifesavers and a hint of licorice. Amazing!] Also, the gigantic Wolf River longs to be sliced and dried.

I feel as if I've stumbled upon a parallel apple universe to the wool one that I know and love so well, with each variety bringing such varied results, and with so many being overlooked by the mainstream. Two shipments in and I'm already positively bored by the apple offerings at my grocery store.

What will these become? I'm open to any ideas you may have. I did not succeed in eating every single apple from the last shipment, but I did pretty well. Two batches of applesauce, an apple cake, and a particularly succulent tray of apple and candied pecan caramels that were handed out to sugar-cravers at Vogue Knitting Live in Los Angeles last week.

The apple/caramel connection definitely deserves more exploration. What do you think of drying some of those elephant-sized slices of Wolf River and then drizzling them with caramel, sprinkling them with a hint of fleur de sel, and wrapping each one in wax paper for safekeeping? If I time it right, I can give them away at the NY State Sheep & Wool Festival in Rhinebeck, where I'll be celebrating the launch of my third book. Yes, I think I'd like that.

The process of writing a book, and then having your little Word file become an actual three-dimensional book with a life and presence all its own... it's a surreal experience. Deeply challenging and immensely rewarding, but surreal. This last part, the final few weeks leading up to the release, are like the quiet before the storm. You know you should be doing things. Shooting clever promotional videos. Writing brilliant blog posts. Planning ingenious publicity stunts. Stir the pot! Keep the machine going! Productize on the wordification! Sell sell sell!

You also know that once this book is out there, you are exposed. Something very tender and personal is now up for public display. You knew that going into this, but now it's real. People await in the bushes, slingshots at the ready, eager to point out any and all shortcomings. Without realizing quite what's happened, your work has suddenly become an unwitting contestant on American Idol.

Thus I am savoring this last tender moment my book and I have alone together, just the two of us. As it enters the world, it will become something else. I have to let it go. For its sake, but also for my own so that I, too, can begin to move on.

But the least I can do is give it a proper send-off, make sure it has clean laundry, its cell phone is charged, it has a full tank of gas, all the tires are properly inflated.

"Call me when you get there," I'll say for the umpteenth time, knowing that, even then, the call will be rushed, distant, different.

At the last minute? I'll tuck a bag of homemade Claramels where it'll be discovered, perhaps, during a rest stop on the New York Thruway. In one bite, all the flavors, the depth and nuance and subtlety of layered spice and sweet and chew will come together to express all that I couldn't possibly find a way to say in words.

Going Out on a Limb

I can't decide on which sentence to begin this post. The two top candidates are a) "Let the games begin!" or b) "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

I've never joined a CSA before. I'm usually never in one place long enough to enjoy it.* That, and whenever I am home I can't even eat all the produce that's sprung up in my own garden.

But this year, I found a CSA too good to pass up. It's called Out on a Limb, and it focuses exclusively on apples, glorious apples, in all sizes and shapes and tastes and textures, from modern graftings to ancient varieties people have been using to keep the ol' doctor away for hundreds of years.

The first pick-up was today, and it'll keep happening every other week until November. I'm so excited I can barely contain myself.

The kind folks at Rabelais Books offered up their space as Temporary Apple Depot, so there I went. All the apples are neatly bagged and labeled in a long row under the store's giant plate-glass window. You simply walk down the row, trick-or-treat style, and pop a bag of each variety into your own, far bigger tote bag. Some of the apple bags are big and heavy, a few are tiny and light with just one or two samples to whet your appetite.

While I was there chatting with Samantha, the bright and devilishly funny owner of Rabelais, people kept streaming in to pick up their bags, and everybody had the same sense of giddiness. Apples! All those apples! One woman had kept her son out of school for the day so he could join his younger sister and mother on their apple-picking expedition. He promptly unearthed the largest apple of their stash - nearly as big as his head - and bit into it. The last I saw of him, he was lying on the floor in a blissful apple stupor with just the core in his hand.

What to do with all these apples? That is the question du jour. They don't send you away clueless. We all received a newsletter - a vast and colorful piece of research and writing - explaining the backgrounds of each apple, the best ways to prepare it, recipes you may want to try, and even introducing you to the people who would be picking your apples over the coming weeks.

But the first order of business: Which one should I try first?

*I already think there may be at least one week when I won't be around to enjoy my shipment. If you're in the PWM area and interested, drop me a line at Clara AT knittersreview DOT com.

This summer I was lucky enough to travel quite a bit. The opportunities were too fabulous to pass up. The people I met? Fantastic. Every single one. (Except the couple behind me in customs coming back from London. I'm hoping they've found a good divorce lawyer by now.)

But if I had to tell you what my favorite place has been? It'd still be right here at home.

Time Traveling

What a blur. It feels like just a few weeks ago that I soaked my sweet pea seeds and tapped them into the ground. Yet when I returned from London and Knit Nation earlier this week, I discovered that they were already in full bloom. The peonies are done, the delphiniums are already forming seed pods, and even my hollyhocks, those glorious spikes of rich pink, were on their way out. Even the field is turning gold. What is happening?

Meanwhile my nieces - those wild and fearless young optimists who used to run out into the field barefoot and pluck wildflowers for me - have suddenly become subdued teenagers with far too much on their minds. All too quickly they've been pushed into a tricky world, and it pains me to watch them try to navigate it.

Yesterday we all went swimming in the same large freshwater pond where I learned to swim as a toddler and where my mother swam during summer camp when she was a child. And for a brief moment, as we bobbed around and made silly dives off the float, I felt time transcended. I felt their happy young firefly spirits, and I felt my own, and we were all right there, splashing and laughing together. It was as if an editor had gone in and erased all records of boyfriends and peer pressure and health insurance premiums and that strange noise that just started coming from the front wheel well that could mean a brake job or a leaky ball joint or good lord maybe the whole car is starting to go... Nope, all that was out of the picture.

Soon enough the inevitable "time for dinner!" call came from shore and we reluctantly got out, dried off, and returned to our respective roles as adults and teens. But how reassuring to know all was not actually lost. It was still right there, as if in suspended animation, just waiting for us. Sounds and smells can evoke visceral responses, but nothing beats putting on a dorky bathing suit and splashing around in a pond, reconnecting with the people you love.