For the next few months I’ll be on cloud nine. My bliss, the Gravenstein apple is back and I’ve scored three bags so let the gorging begin! They were $7.00 each this year and normally I’d complain about the price but beggars can’t be choosers and I’d remortgage the house to keep a steady flow through my door. The season is short so I have to act fast and store them away like a squirrel's nuts. In the fridge they last for months, and mine will hold about 10 bags so out goes the beer, wine, club soda and the unnecessary bottles of BBQ sauce, pickles and jam. I’ll also have a few bags hoarded in the cellar-way that I will keep for eating as they ripen. I have to make a plan to maximize the bounty and insure they last until the New Year. Although I want to binge, I’ll force myself to have one a day, after all that keeps the doctor away....and if there's any truth to this saying, considering all the apples I ate as a child, thousands over the years, that should mean I won't need a medical appointment until the year 2025.
When they talk of the Garden of Eden I’m sure it was the mighty Gravenstein that felled Adam. No one could resist its delectable charm. Once you tasted this amazing fruit, all other brands of apples will pale in comparison. For those who never get to see one, let alone eat it, because I’m not sure if they are shipped outside of Nova Scotia, I feel a genuine sadness for you. It’s like saying you’ve never traveled to see Tropical Ocean, or never felt the white sands of resort beaches between your toes. But on the flip side, one must think that perhaps exporting them would greatly decrease my intake, so therefore, too bad for the masses.
Several days ago, I emptied one bag in a bowl in the kitchen and then the wait began. This was the first pickings, or at least that’s what the guy told me at the Blockhouse four way stop where I almost caused an accident braking after seeing the sign “GRAVENSTEINS FOR SALE”. They are always picked too early and are literally too hard to enjoy so the wait is on. They’ve been sitting for days and finally this morning I tried one and it was almost at the perfect stage where the sweetness of age balances the tart essence that makes this apple so divine. Once the fruit flies start buzzing about, they’ve gone past the ready state so the trick is to catch them at the right time. Once the flesh begins to soften, they need to go into the fridge to retard the ripening.
I wait all year for this perfect apple. I don’t like, nor love any other. I am loyal to the object of my affection. In a pinch I’ll choose a Granny Smith or a Cortland for a pie or an eating apple if necessary, but they fall flat on my tongue and do nothing to rouse the OMG within.
I got hooked on Gravensteins when my parents purchased a new house when I was ten. We lived on Cherry Lane which was ironic because I don’t remember ever seeing a cherry tree other than the sour, uncouth cousins, the Choke Cherries. I'm told they make a half decent wine, but eating them in berry form causes your tongue to curl down your throat to escape touching your lips and were mainly used as a dare to see which kid could eat them and keep a straight face.
The property had an apple tree in the back yard. That first spring, the canopy of light pink blossoms was a sight to see. Bees buzzed in and out of every flower, how lucky they were to be that close to perfection. I never realized the flowers would become apples until I witnessed the miracle of little green balls covering the entire tree. I was amazed at the wonderment of it all. As a kid, everything in nature is a fascinating learning experience. So I watched the apples grow to the size of a baby’s fist and one day I found one on the ground and bit into it. It was small, brutally hard and green, but there was something magical about the tartness. I’d never tasted an apple like it before. So I waited and watched and sampled any that fell and as they matured, they got better tasting.
It was clear I had competition for the apples. Worms took a large percentage and my mom gathered aprons full for cooking applesauce, tasty for sure although I preferred the apples raw and in their natural form.
Not all the apples that fell were in mint condition. There was a great deal of bruising from the dropl and imperfections. Then there were the holes, little roadways as the worms traveled around apple town. Dad didn’t spray the tree and his opinion of the apples wasn’t all that favourable considering he had to pick them up when he mowed the grass. Without spraying and constant attention, the poor little apples were left on their own to become all they could be, some were picked off by burrowing creatures, others ended up in a sauce pan but overall the harvest ended up in me.
My mom sternly warned me not to eat them, which fell on deaf ears. I started sneaking them into my bedroom; my book bag bulged with a lot more than homework. She warned of stomach aches and diarrhea cramps but that didn’t bother me, the apples were worth the risk. Once they ripened and developed a bit of red they were heavenly but I was eating them long before that. I noticed that when the green ones fell, hit the ground and bounced, the bruised areas were super sweet so I snuck a large soup spoon out of the pantry and whacked the apples so the flesh was soft and mushy and edible. I pounded the crap out of them and ate upwards of several dozen a day. The worms didn’t deter me either, I would bite around the holes, and even if I ate a few I wasn’t worried. The power of the apple far outweighed the fear of worms in my belly.
I never got the trots nor did my belly ache. But I was walking around stuffed to the gills with apple. I think when you’ve eaten something until you almost vomit, that would qualify as an addiction. I could barely sit at the table for meals let alone eat dinner I was so engorged but I managed to hide the fact that I was binge eating the backyard fruit. There were so many apples falling I could barely keep up. Eating them behind the shed and chucking the cores in the neighbour’s field, quickly, stealthily, as not to be caught. Very rarely did I get out the pole, my mother used to support the wash line, to knock them down but if there weren’t enough on the ground to sustain me, I helped them along. The apples were high up and the tree was too gnarly to climb and I’d been warned by dad not to dare get caught up the tree so I’d whack a few fresh ones off of the lower branches. Not all apples fall off the branch. Some hold on for dear life and even the fall winds didn’t shake them down. They ripened and then began to dry and shrink. It was torture not to have them, what a waste.
Once they ripen holy cow were they wonderful. The flesh was soft and tart but sweet. They became more red and yellow than green and were the size of a large egg to a tennis ball. My bedroom must have smelled like an apple patch because the fruit flies found them, I was swatting them in my sleep! Mom hardly went in my room as the mess was too much to bear. She was so neat and tidy and I was so very opposite. On wash days she ventured in to rake up my clothes from the floor. She smoked so maybe her sense of smell was off because the place reeked of aging fruit and she never complained.
I would throw the apple cores out my window and later pick them up and chuck them in the bushes or throw them into the neighbour’s yard I was clever and never got caught, but really what was the big crime. I was eating fruit for goodness sake; not exactly one of the seven sins, well, I guess gluttony would apply..... The birds got blamed for apple snatching. Dad mentioned at dinner one night that the apples seem to be disappearing. Taking into consideration the yield in the tree, there should have been a load falling to the ground. Crows got the blame and in a way it wasn’t far from the truth considering that was my mom’s pet name for me.
It was I, crow girl, whisking them zealously away. While other kids were having outdoors playing games I was hanging around preoccupied with ramming apples into my greedy mouth. I can’t tell you how many I ate each summer, but it was probably in the high hundreds. I had stashes everywhere, piled in the shed, behind the shed in the bushes and in my room. I was taking them to school, eating them on the way, leaving a trail of cores to find my way back home. The Gravenstein season was a short run and after the last ones grew overripe and dropped to the ground, smashing like water balloons on impact, I knew the reign was over.
I was an Apple Addict and there was no cure. It was painful to have to wait until the next September. I waited impatiently for the year to pass, the spring leaves to open and the blossoms to fill the air with their sweet perfume, the sign of glorious things to come. Over the years the tree produced less and less fruit and before I left home, one of the larger branches had been hollowed out by ants and broke off. The tree is still standing but I’m not sure if it yields any fruit.
Even now at 56, I still wait for September. I think about it constantly when I see all the other sad little apples in the store, ignored because they don’t measure up. I really dislike apples that taste like pears, have flesh that’s too soft, or too little flavour. Everyone went crazy over the Honeycrisp but it fell flat on me. Maybe it’s good the Gravenstein is seasonal so I don’t weigh 300 lbs and they are more special due to their limited growing season.
So now I have to wait on valley apples to fill my addiction. Maybe I should plant a few apple trees on the property so I can pick my own. Last year I managed to keep them until the end of December because there is only so much room in our fridge to allocate to them. Hubby is warned they are mine. He isn’t apple discerning and doesn’t care what brand he eats so I covet them for myself because it matters to me.
I tried to eat one the day I bought them but it was as hard as a rock, tart beyond painful and did nothing to bring back the memory of my childhood. Sure I could have gotten out a spoon and knocked them into edible but I’m older and more mature and can wait for the natural ripening, after all it's superior to my forced approach. I have to tell yah though; it’s grueling to have to wait. I just had a thought. I think I’ll take a drive past our old house on the way home from work, maybe knock on the door and ask if I can take a picture of the tree, see if there are any lying around for the taking....I’ll be right back.
**************************************************************************************************
Glory be thy name of Gravenstein! I knocked on the door of the people who now own our former family home and asked to take a picture of the apple tree. They obliged and as I approached my past, the sweet smell of rotting apples wafted through the air, found my nostrils and brought on a flood of memories. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of apples lay dying, decomposing into the earth, the smell of fermentation filling the air. What a glorious reunion but a sad sight for the senses......
The tree trunk still had a massive hole in it from rotting on the inside out but it had a full canapy of leaves and never looked healthier. There were a lot of apples still hanging, not quite ripe enough to fall. I looked around the ground and saw a few that weren’t brown and bruised beyond salvaging and I couldn’t help myself. I scooped up one that looked edible and stuffed it into my work apron pocket. Then I spied another and another until my pockets were full. I snapped several pictures from different angles and then walked to the car. I casually glanced to see if I was being watched but I couldn’t be sure. I got into the car and even before I put the key in the ignition, I was rubbing one of the contraband apples on my thigh to polish it. I started the car and put it in drive and as I pulled away from the driveway, I took the first bite.
The experience was intoxicating! The taste and smell was just as I remembered all those years ago. The texture and flavour is a bit different than the commercially grown ones today, I think they might have been hybridized to grow larger and redder but that won’t deter me from eating them.
Forty six years melted away and I was a child again, eating forbidden fruit. Wow! Words can’t describe how it felt. By the time I reached home the first apple was gone, the core thrown into the harbour, organic waste that it is. The second one was at my lips before I got out of the car. That one wasn’t quite at the same stage of ripeness as the first and needed a bit more time but it was enjoyable all the same. I think I’ll leave the other three on the counter for a day or so to get the best eating experience. Besides, I don’t want to overdo it. I’m a lot older now and maybe my digestive system isn’t as flexible as in my youth, I’m hoping I don’t get the trots, but even if I do, it was worth every bite.
It’s very sad that the apples of this fine tree are wasted and turning to mush, especially when they are unsprayed and natural. Apples purchased at the store today might be perfect and without blemishes, but they’re probably toxic right to their very core from pesticides. To be able to wipe an apple on your jeans to remove any dirt and polish it to a mirror shine, then pop it in your mouth confident that it’s chemical free is a thing of the past and not something today’s generation will ever know.
Maybe next year I could offer to take a few of the fallen ones off their hands. Apparently the guy just raked them into one area so they still present a problem with mowing. Thoughts of a midnight dash for a few dozen popped into my head but I would never steal them, after dark I wouldn’t be able to see the ones with worm holes....
I wonder if being told not to eat the apples began the gluttonous obsessions I entertain today. If I see it, I eat it, all of it. I have no off switch. It’s the same with my preoccupation with dead bodies that began the day mom hustled me out of the living room as President Kennedy’s casket came rolling into view on television. Inadvertently creating a taboo about death, she created the opposite effect she hoped to avoid. She didn’t want me to have a nightmare but I lay in my bed that night envisioning all manner of horrors that might have been on the screen. Every bit of ghoulish fear I’d ever heard of, blood, skulls with worms in the eye holes, swamp monsters, vampires and things that go bump in the night invaded my thoughts peaking my curiosity into a lifelong obsession about the dead.
If mom had said, “Chrissy, get outdoors and eat all those apples, they’re good for you”, I probably wouldn’t be writing this story. Instead the forbidden fruit became objects of desire. I crave these apples like others dream of chocolate. It seems a bit silly. Really, what grown person covets apples? Dreams of them three seasons out of the four? Hides them as not to share? Apples?! Really?
When they talk of the Garden of Eden I’m sure it was the mighty Gravenstein that felled Adam. No one could resist its delectable charm. Once you tasted this amazing fruit, all other brands of apples will pale in comparison. For those who never get to see one, let alone eat it, because I’m not sure if they are shipped outside of Nova Scotia, I feel a genuine sadness for you. It’s like saying you’ve never traveled to see Tropical Ocean, or never felt the white sands of resort beaches between your toes. But on the flip side, one must think that perhaps exporting them would greatly decrease my intake, so therefore, too bad for the masses.
Several days ago, I emptied one bag in a bowl in the kitchen and then the wait began. This was the first pickings, or at least that’s what the guy told me at the Blockhouse four way stop where I almost caused an accident braking after seeing the sign “GRAVENSTEINS FOR SALE”. They are always picked too early and are literally too hard to enjoy so the wait is on. They’ve been sitting for days and finally this morning I tried one and it was almost at the perfect stage where the sweetness of age balances the tart essence that makes this apple so divine. Once the fruit flies start buzzing about, they’ve gone past the ready state so the trick is to catch them at the right time. Once the flesh begins to soften, they need to go into the fridge to retard the ripening.
I wait all year for this perfect apple. I don’t like, nor love any other. I am loyal to the object of my affection. In a pinch I’ll choose a Granny Smith or a Cortland for a pie or an eating apple if necessary, but they fall flat on my tongue and do nothing to rouse the OMG within.
I got hooked on Gravensteins when my parents purchased a new house when I was ten. We lived on Cherry Lane which was ironic because I don’t remember ever seeing a cherry tree other than the sour, uncouth cousins, the Choke Cherries. I'm told they make a half decent wine, but eating them in berry form causes your tongue to curl down your throat to escape touching your lips and were mainly used as a dare to see which kid could eat them and keep a straight face.
The property had an apple tree in the back yard. That first spring, the canopy of light pink blossoms was a sight to see. Bees buzzed in and out of every flower, how lucky they were to be that close to perfection. I never realized the flowers would become apples until I witnessed the miracle of little green balls covering the entire tree. I was amazed at the wonderment of it all. As a kid, everything in nature is a fascinating learning experience. So I watched the apples grow to the size of a baby’s fist and one day I found one on the ground and bit into it. It was small, brutally hard and green, but there was something magical about the tartness. I’d never tasted an apple like it before. So I waited and watched and sampled any that fell and as they matured, they got better tasting.
It was clear I had competition for the apples. Worms took a large percentage and my mom gathered aprons full for cooking applesauce, tasty for sure although I preferred the apples raw and in their natural form.
Not all the apples that fell were in mint condition. There was a great deal of bruising from the dropl and imperfections. Then there were the holes, little roadways as the worms traveled around apple town. Dad didn’t spray the tree and his opinion of the apples wasn’t all that favourable considering he had to pick them up when he mowed the grass. Without spraying and constant attention, the poor little apples were left on their own to become all they could be, some were picked off by burrowing creatures, others ended up in a sauce pan but overall the harvest ended up in me.
My mom sternly warned me not to eat them, which fell on deaf ears. I started sneaking them into my bedroom; my book bag bulged with a lot more than homework. She warned of stomach aches and diarrhea cramps but that didn’t bother me, the apples were worth the risk. Once they ripened and developed a bit of red they were heavenly but I was eating them long before that. I noticed that when the green ones fell, hit the ground and bounced, the bruised areas were super sweet so I snuck a large soup spoon out of the pantry and whacked the apples so the flesh was soft and mushy and edible. I pounded the crap out of them and ate upwards of several dozen a day. The worms didn’t deter me either, I would bite around the holes, and even if I ate a few I wasn’t worried. The power of the apple far outweighed the fear of worms in my belly.
I never got the trots nor did my belly ache. But I was walking around stuffed to the gills with apple. I think when you’ve eaten something until you almost vomit, that would qualify as an addiction. I could barely sit at the table for meals let alone eat dinner I was so engorged but I managed to hide the fact that I was binge eating the backyard fruit. There were so many apples falling I could barely keep up. Eating them behind the shed and chucking the cores in the neighbour’s field, quickly, stealthily, as not to be caught. Very rarely did I get out the pole, my mother used to support the wash line, to knock them down but if there weren’t enough on the ground to sustain me, I helped them along. The apples were high up and the tree was too gnarly to climb and I’d been warned by dad not to dare get caught up the tree so I’d whack a few fresh ones off of the lower branches. Not all apples fall off the branch. Some hold on for dear life and even the fall winds didn’t shake them down. They ripened and then began to dry and shrink. It was torture not to have them, what a waste.
Once they ripen holy cow were they wonderful. The flesh was soft and tart but sweet. They became more red and yellow than green and were the size of a large egg to a tennis ball. My bedroom must have smelled like an apple patch because the fruit flies found them, I was swatting them in my sleep! Mom hardly went in my room as the mess was too much to bear. She was so neat and tidy and I was so very opposite. On wash days she ventured in to rake up my clothes from the floor. She smoked so maybe her sense of smell was off because the place reeked of aging fruit and she never complained.
I would throw the apple cores out my window and later pick them up and chuck them in the bushes or throw them into the neighbour’s yard I was clever and never got caught, but really what was the big crime. I was eating fruit for goodness sake; not exactly one of the seven sins, well, I guess gluttony would apply..... The birds got blamed for apple snatching. Dad mentioned at dinner one night that the apples seem to be disappearing. Taking into consideration the yield in the tree, there should have been a load falling to the ground. Crows got the blame and in a way it wasn’t far from the truth considering that was my mom’s pet name for me.
It was I, crow girl, whisking them zealously away. While other kids were having outdoors playing games I was hanging around preoccupied with ramming apples into my greedy mouth. I can’t tell you how many I ate each summer, but it was probably in the high hundreds. I had stashes everywhere, piled in the shed, behind the shed in the bushes and in my room. I was taking them to school, eating them on the way, leaving a trail of cores to find my way back home. The Gravenstein season was a short run and after the last ones grew overripe and dropped to the ground, smashing like water balloons on impact, I knew the reign was over.
I was an Apple Addict and there was no cure. It was painful to have to wait until the next September. I waited impatiently for the year to pass, the spring leaves to open and the blossoms to fill the air with their sweet perfume, the sign of glorious things to come. Over the years the tree produced less and less fruit and before I left home, one of the larger branches had been hollowed out by ants and broke off. The tree is still standing but I’m not sure if it yields any fruit.
Even now at 56, I still wait for September. I think about it constantly when I see all the other sad little apples in the store, ignored because they don’t measure up. I really dislike apples that taste like pears, have flesh that’s too soft, or too little flavour. Everyone went crazy over the Honeycrisp but it fell flat on me. Maybe it’s good the Gravenstein is seasonal so I don’t weigh 300 lbs and they are more special due to their limited growing season.
So now I have to wait on valley apples to fill my addiction. Maybe I should plant a few apple trees on the property so I can pick my own. Last year I managed to keep them until the end of December because there is only so much room in our fridge to allocate to them. Hubby is warned they are mine. He isn’t apple discerning and doesn’t care what brand he eats so I covet them for myself because it matters to me.
I tried to eat one the day I bought them but it was as hard as a rock, tart beyond painful and did nothing to bring back the memory of my childhood. Sure I could have gotten out a spoon and knocked them into edible but I’m older and more mature and can wait for the natural ripening, after all it's superior to my forced approach. I have to tell yah though; it’s grueling to have to wait. I just had a thought. I think I’ll take a drive past our old house on the way home from work, maybe knock on the door and ask if I can take a picture of the tree, see if there are any lying around for the taking....I’ll be right back.
**************************************************************************************************
Glory be thy name of Gravenstein! I knocked on the door of the people who now own our former family home and asked to take a picture of the apple tree. They obliged and as I approached my past, the sweet smell of rotting apples wafted through the air, found my nostrils and brought on a flood of memories. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of apples lay dying, decomposing into the earth, the smell of fermentation filling the air. What a glorious reunion but a sad sight for the senses......
The tree trunk still had a massive hole in it from rotting on the inside out but it had a full canapy of leaves and never looked healthier. There were a lot of apples still hanging, not quite ripe enough to fall. I looked around the ground and saw a few that weren’t brown and bruised beyond salvaging and I couldn’t help myself. I scooped up one that looked edible and stuffed it into my work apron pocket. Then I spied another and another until my pockets were full. I snapped several pictures from different angles and then walked to the car. I casually glanced to see if I was being watched but I couldn’t be sure. I got into the car and even before I put the key in the ignition, I was rubbing one of the contraband apples on my thigh to polish it. I started the car and put it in drive and as I pulled away from the driveway, I took the first bite.
The experience was intoxicating! The taste and smell was just as I remembered all those years ago. The texture and flavour is a bit different than the commercially grown ones today, I think they might have been hybridized to grow larger and redder but that won’t deter me from eating them.
Forty six years melted away and I was a child again, eating forbidden fruit. Wow! Words can’t describe how it felt. By the time I reached home the first apple was gone, the core thrown into the harbour, organic waste that it is. The second one was at my lips before I got out of the car. That one wasn’t quite at the same stage of ripeness as the first and needed a bit more time but it was enjoyable all the same. I think I’ll leave the other three on the counter for a day or so to get the best eating experience. Besides, I don’t want to overdo it. I’m a lot older now and maybe my digestive system isn’t as flexible as in my youth, I’m hoping I don’t get the trots, but even if I do, it was worth every bite.
It’s very sad that the apples of this fine tree are wasted and turning to mush, especially when they are unsprayed and natural. Apples purchased at the store today might be perfect and without blemishes, but they’re probably toxic right to their very core from pesticides. To be able to wipe an apple on your jeans to remove any dirt and polish it to a mirror shine, then pop it in your mouth confident that it’s chemical free is a thing of the past and not something today’s generation will ever know.
Maybe next year I could offer to take a few of the fallen ones off their hands. Apparently the guy just raked them into one area so they still present a problem with mowing. Thoughts of a midnight dash for a few dozen popped into my head but I would never steal them, after dark I wouldn’t be able to see the ones with worm holes....
I wonder if being told not to eat the apples began the gluttonous obsessions I entertain today. If I see it, I eat it, all of it. I have no off switch. It’s the same with my preoccupation with dead bodies that began the day mom hustled me out of the living room as President Kennedy’s casket came rolling into view on television. Inadvertently creating a taboo about death, she created the opposite effect she hoped to avoid. She didn’t want me to have a nightmare but I lay in my bed that night envisioning all manner of horrors that might have been on the screen. Every bit of ghoulish fear I’d ever heard of, blood, skulls with worms in the eye holes, swamp monsters, vampires and things that go bump in the night invaded my thoughts peaking my curiosity into a lifelong obsession about the dead.
If mom had said, “Chrissy, get outdoors and eat all those apples, they’re good for you”, I probably wouldn’t be writing this story. Instead the forbidden fruit became objects of desire. I crave these apples like others dream of chocolate. It seems a bit silly. Really, what grown person covets apples? Dreams of them three seasons out of the four? Hides them as not to share? Apples?! Really?
Three of the five contraband apples carried off the property in my apron pocket. They aren't perfect, are bruised, have blemishes and worms, but taste phenomenal!
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