And they are lying all over Marin county roads, yards, gutters. Gold ones red ones green ones gnawed on ones, partially rotten ones, pecked-at ones.
Adding to the scent of autumn, and weighing down my greasy blue Cannondale panniers from 1984 no I’m not replacing them.
Apples that lie around the kitchen for weeks meekly hoping I’ll do something. Applpomorphizing here. I know apples don’t hope, aren’t meek, etc. But once you’ve seen an apple doll, that wrinkly personable little old lady some crafty person made and decorated, you can’t rid yourself of the idea that every single one has its own inner doll…
And then suddenly I’m hungry and begin the mad peeling, ruthless chopping of my apple orphans.
Long Lankin with a cleaver, and a pie-pan “for the fruit all to run in” (see Steeleye Span song)).
The dreadful waste of throwing away the half that’s deliquesced into soft weepy brown mass, nearly cider, in fact (taste liquid on counter that’s more like syrup) it is not bad, it’s good. Well the red worms’ll like it.
At some point I’ll figure out how to capture the good apple-weep gunk. Now it’s just time to feed the hungry JP
On top: two fists of flour, half a stick of beurre, oh, maybe 2/3 let’s splurge–worked it into coarse meal texture, add a handful of white sugar, two shakes of cinnamon, a few turns of the pepper grinder, black or (newly acquired mini-grinder) white…paw through it a bit more, blending roughly.
Pour lemon juice over the piled high pan apples on bottom, dump crumbs on.
Apple crisp needs 40 minutes at 350 degrees F.
The smell will tell you, in case they cook faster than expected, remain nearby.
Pull it out, lay it on counter, admire, take picture, give a silly benediction, wait a half hour to cool, dive in.
Use up last of the cream that Carol Ness the SF Chronicle writer brought me for our Salivation Army Luncheon which.. gee I think I wrote up but it’s in the other blog…