It seems that we olde English and the New Englanders have something special in common. It's red, juicy and rhymes with Snapple. That's right — this week we focus on all things apple.
I am something of a patriot when it comes to apples from Blighty — back home, this year was a very special one, apple-wise. Freak weather conditions resulted in one of the earliest-ever apple crops. I naturally rushed to buy the first of the English Discovery apples as soon as they hit grocery stores, feeling somewhat smug and pleased that this would be my apple high for the year. Not even close.
My first encounter with American apples came on an enlightening trip to the organic behemoth that is Whole Foods. The apples were simply astonishing: brightly colored, radiant orbs stacked in high piles all around.
One of the most striking things to me was their size. Your apples are enormous — I mean huge — like the size of a baby's head! What on Earth is going on? It makes me feel quite humble about our more meager offerings back home. And they are so very, very shiny. I must admit, I took some photos and earned some incredulous glances in the process.
Soon after this, I was lucky enough to go on the International Center's apple-picking trip. We love apples at home, but we don't generally have weekend activities solely devoted to them (unless drinking cider counts). It was a delight: There were huge, slightly less waxy apples to pluck from the tree and enjoy prepared in a variety of ways, including apple cider — I have now established this is not alcoholic here — apple doughnuts and, um, peach smoothies.
My thrill-seeker reputation was slightly dented by a shaky start going up the ladders, but I soon got the hang of it. And what would an apple-picking trip be without a fun selection of farm animals to pet and goats to feed? I can enthusiastically report that our multicultural gang from all four corners of the globe had a thoroughly wonderful day out!
At home, I eventually worked my way through my apple stack and gradually learned the best way to tackle an apple of that size. I bided my time looking forward to the hallowed day that was coming: I had been promised apple pie — a proper, home-baked apple pie. I was naturally very excited to experience this American classic firsthand.
After a few days, I wandered into the kitchen to be greeted by banjo music, courtesy of Steve Martin. Yes, Steve Martin, the funny man with the white hair out of "Roxanne" (1987) and "L.A. Story" (1991). Apparently, he is a renowned banjo player! Steve's banjo became the soundtrack to my housemates' apple-pie baking — what could be more American?
So Southern Princess and Curly slaved away in the kitchen, instructing my Chinese housemate in the ancient art of apple-pie baking. Presumably, they also spent some time educating her on Steve Martin's banjo music to complete her cultural experience; apparently, he's just won an award, you know. Minus some impromptu dancing when the music got exciting, I kept a respectful distance from their frolicking in the kitchen.
And eventually, there it was: the apple pie. The goddess of the American dessert table — and the unlikely star of a film series of the same name — was sitting on my plate, ready to be devoured. I am told this was a cobbler, but I really don't know the difference. Either way, it was gorgeous, and I now feel fully prepared for the pumpkin pie delights to follow. Mm…
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Tai Frater is pursuing a post-graduate degree in occupational therapy. She can be reached at Tai.Frater@tufts.edu.
