The house where the Boyfriend lives has a backyard with a garden and trees and such. The recent (incredibly annoying) winds suddenly made all the apples fall from one of his trees. Yesterday he brought over a huge amount of these apples, a psychotic amount, at least to this city girl’s eyes. I knew what to do with a lot of them, however — even an out-of-touch-with-nature human like me can’t live in an agricultural county without knowing The Trick: foist off your bounty on all friends, family and (if you’re lucky to have access) audience members.

But even with The Trick, there are ever so many apples left. I asked Lamar what kind they were and he said “Yellow? Apple shaped?” I think they are Golden Delicious, sure why not. Just don’t ask me to tell which one’s a goat and which one’s a sheep.

I made a small apple tart with some dough I had lying around. Not bad. Now I am commencing on a dismaying large batch of applesauce; somehow I thought that quadrupling the recipe wouldn’t yield a buttload of sauce, but there appears indeed to be a buttload of sauce simmering away. Fortunately I still live with the Elderly Relative, and if there’s one thing I know about my old folk is that they love the applesauce.

I suppose I’ll embark on the pie thing if I still have this ridiculous homey streak left in me this afternoon. Another task? Washing all the good crystal in preparation for Thanksgiving. If my mom were here she’d be calling me Harriet Housewife right about now.

Apples apples apples. Can I talk more about apples? Is this getting to you? Perhaps you have a glimmer of how I’m feeling when I look and see that the pile of apples in the garage is still high, high, high.