Memories of apple-picking come in silent vignettes for me, flashes of rural orchards and empty bushels and testing the strength of my 12-year-old forearms.
I was always slightly confused about it as a child -- there is no carrot-pulling or potato-digging, though there maybe should be -- but I loved it anyway, and I returned to assess my apple capacity every fall. I won't formally admit to cider donuts deserving any of the credit for my annual returns, but I suspect they may have had some pull.
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The food poem today is a classic, by a classic, to remind us to pick our own (if we haven’t already) before the season escapes us.
I have a thing for most foods topped with a fried egg, a strange disdain for overly soupy tomato sauce, and I can never make it home without ripping off the end of a newly-bought baguette. I like spoons very much.