All posts filed under: apples

chocolate pear jam, from a raisin and a porpoise

pear of aces

I have a new piece up over here, if you are of a mind to read it. Meanwhile, our cavalcade of apples continues unabated.  “I have never in my life seen so many apples,” said my sister, who has seen a lot of apples. Mind you I am not complaining about the apples, though I am a little tired. Are you making lots of pies? ask innocent persons who don’t deserve a black eye.  Pies. Indeed.  WHO HAS TIME TO MAKE A PIE? Sometimes there is a dessert emergency when I am making applesauce or apple chutney or dried apples or apple juice or something else made of apples, and then I whip a pan of baked apples through the production line. Those are tasty.  I toss them with butter or olive oil, or a combination, and some sugar, or coconut sugar, or maple syrup, and maybe some hot pepper or lemon zest or something like that which is sitting still near to hand, and then I roast the little dears.  They are heaven with …



Here’s something that I love: a crabapple tree. Do I love the sight of a springtime crabapple tree in full bloom? Yes, I do. But this is not the source of my affection, if we are being entirely honest. Do I love crabapple jelly? I do not. This, my friends, this is why I love the crabapple tree. I can see a crabapple tree positively dripping with crabapples, the scarlet orbs so wantonly abundant and perfectly ripe that they drop to the ground at the slightest brush of breeze and I can think to myself: drop away, wee ruby orblettes! Rot and fester! Compost your bad little apple asses right into the ground! Nurture every passing rodent, cervid and insect with your moldering pulp and blessings on your path. Do I want your sweet great-granny’s recipe for pickled spiced crabapples or your neighbor’s instructions for a perfect crabapple kimchi so that I can learn to love this fruit? Most emphatically I testify to you that I do not. Stand down, all ye who possess affection …

not your mother's haroset, on a raisin & a porpoise

how i look

I am on my way to my high school reunion. I am hedging around saying which one it is, and it occurs to me suddenly how silly that is. It occurs to me how silly a lot of things are, when tectonic plates (real ones) and juggled plates (figurative ones) and other grand-scale matters are uppermost in my mind. I mean, lots of crazy bad crap is happening, at home and abroad. So the fact that I get to be 47 years old, and have three decades since high school to gaze back on—that suddenly seems like a silly thing to get squirrelly about. When I was plotting my course towards this occasion, I had to factor in that I’d be traveling quite a while before I got to set my bag down, and a lot of that on foot. Carrying several outfit possibilities around was kind of out of the question.  My default “feel more devil-may-care about how I look” setting is at the point on the dial marked “badass boots.” But I knew …