No Macs for Me

From Wikipedia

It’s almost time for apple picking and homemade cider up north. I always visited my favorite cider stand up in Connecticut during this time of year. Some grove owners will let you go in and pick your own apples.

I have a problem however. I cannot find a good eating Mcintosh apple here in Georgia. I prefer Macs for eating as I find all other types of apples to be too bland or too mushy or just too hard to chew.

I used to be able to find them once in a while in my grocery store, but not in the last year or so. I don’t know why that is. Maybe I should ask them. I suppose if I went up to Whole Foods or Whole Paycheck as we call it, I might find one decent enough to eat, but I’d leave all my money there at the same time by picking up other stuff I don’t think I can live without.

Anyway, I still have good memories of some good eating Macs and can’t wait till I can renew that memory for real. Funny thing, though. My Dad couldn’t stand the smell of an apple once you bit into it. I think it was because there was an apple orchard on the farm where he lived as a youth and he remembers the smell of rotting apples on the ground.  I suspect that he probably was made into an apple picker during the season also. So if we bit into a good Mac inside the house and he was home, we had to take the core and put it into the outside garbage barrel when we were done.

Green apples

What did your mother tell you would happen to you if you continued to eat green apples? Worms, right? Did any of you ever get worms from eating them? I bet not. Besides Mcintosh apples, we kids used to like to raid the nearest tree that still had green apples on them. They were usually small and easy for us to put into a pocket to eat later on. It was an easy snack and one we didn’t have to beg our mother to buy for us. Later on, as teenagers, we used to load up the old DeSoto with them on a Friday night; then head for the rotary and throw them at the cars of any boys we came across. It was a great game. That was the closest we ever came to being the dreaded Juvenile Delinquents everyone was warned about.

The Fulton Street House Tree

We had an apple tree at the Fulton Street house. They were small apples of an unknown variety and they were often wormy. However, if you peeled enough of them and made sure there were no worms left, they made one terrific pie. Once anyone ate a slice of one of my mother’s apple pies (with home-made crust by the way), everyone wanted to know what kind of apples she’d used. She then invited them to go out and gather up a bag of them for themselves, which they often did. In fact, they would sometimes make a special trip to come visit just so they could replenish their supply.

I don’t think that tree is there anymore. Evidently, the legend of the magic apple tree didn’t get passed down to all the successive owners of the house. We sure missed those apples when we left.

Another strange thing about my Dad’s dislike of apples. He sure would eat any apple pie my mother made. I guess the smell of cinnamon and sugar on the slices cancelled out the bad smell he remembered. Sometimes he’d put a chunk of cheddar cheese on top.

The Other Mcintosh

In case the computer fairy is listening and wants to grant me a wish, I could use one of the Mcintosh variety. I’d have to retrain myself in order to get good use out of it, but it sure would make it easier to put this blog together. Glenda, are you listening?

Thanks to all of you for listening to my apple story today.