Ah those old old apple trees (are they 100 years old by now? possibly?). I have loved an Indian Summer weekend in late September or early October, even later, temps soaring to 60, sun on my neck, walking on a Sunday (after the conference groups have left) from apple tree to apple tree, picking just the right one - eating it on the spot. Oh, but they are sour! Best to make an apple pie after adding loads of sugar to the chopped apples. Or get them into the cider press. But if you dare, eat one right there, in the sun, on the Sunday. Here at right is Sue Moriarity, reaching for the perfect apple on just such a Sunday afternoon in the fall of 1974. We'd munch away, sitting in the Big Tree Field or on the porch of "Old John's" house (currently where the Alexanders live, down the hill along High Falls Brook), hoping Sue would get out her guitar and play a Joni Mitchell song she'd just perfected, or Bonnie Raitt's version of Randy Newman's "Guilty." Heaven: Forstmann's apples and music and nothin' else to do. Hotcha!
Saturday, February 16, 2008
heaven is Forstmann's apples and music
Ah those old old apple trees (are they 100 years old by now? possibly?). I have loved an Indian Summer weekend in late September or early October, even later, temps soaring to 60, sun on my neck, walking on a Sunday (after the conference groups have left) from apple tree to apple tree, picking just the right one - eating it on the spot. Oh, but they are sour! Best to make an apple pie after adding loads of sugar to the chopped apples. Or get them into the cider press. But if you dare, eat one right there, in the sun, on the Sunday. Here at right is Sue Moriarity, reaching for the perfect apple on just such a Sunday afternoon in the fall of 1974. We'd munch away, sitting in the Big Tree Field or on the porch of "Old John's" house (currently where the Alexanders live, down the hill along High Falls Brook), hoping Sue would get out her guitar and play a Joni Mitchell song she'd just perfected, or Bonnie Raitt's version of Randy Newman's "Guilty." Heaven: Forstmann's apples and music and nothin' else to do. Hotcha!
