The winesaps still hanging are not quite ripe, but I’m gleaning riper fallen fruit from our trees for pie and sauce. I’ve pared and cored so many apples, my hand has developed a permanent claw–but fresh apple anything from our own garden is worth it. When I tote yet another pail of fruit inside, my husband questions my sanity. “It’s like a sin to waste them,” I reason. That’s the way I was raised. Besides, I’m ridiculously proud of the results of my efforts.
Apple pies cooling in the kitchen and fresh apple butter on my sprouted grain toast makes me feel all cozy–and well-fed.