Apple Picking...

On the weekend, The Stepmom asked if I'd used my Crock Pot for anything else other than the one batch (and when I say "batch" I mean 3 jars) of apple butter I made back in oh... March.

I had this great idea that I would make apple butter, only the recipes all called for a crock pot, which I didn't own, so I mentioned it to The Stepmom. Magically, on my  birthday, I got a fabulous crock pot. And I made apple butter. The end. 

"No... I haven't quite used it for anything else yet..." I told her, then felt guilty, but the truth is that I was gearing up for the BIG MONSTROUS APPLE BUTTER EXTRAVAGANZA this fall. If you are reading this and are my friend/relative/coworker, be surprised when you get a jar of apple butter around the holidays from me. 

The thing is, I'm not sure where to get enough apples to make dozens and dozens of jars of apple butter. Surely not at the Rabba in my building? 

This morning at the gym, I went to a class led by a grey-haired lady. She's so cute, and when I show up after not being there for weeks (because I am a lazy, bad gym-goer), she'll say things like "Welcome back!" Then she'll nod, and add "Chantel travels a lot for work." The first time it happened, I thought she had me confused with someone else, because I actually don't travel that much, and certainly not extensively enough to justify why I have three-month lapses from the gym. Then, I realized she was just covering for me so I wouldn't look bad. I love her. Anyway, in class today, as we were doing some sort of side-step-reach-in-the-air move, she shouted out, "Like you're picking apples off a tree!" 

Like I'm WHAT?

Do people even pick apples anymore? Where would you do that?

When I was a young MC, we were driving to my cousin's house one Saturday afternoon. We had a pizza in the back and were stopping to pick up a bushel of apples from a farm near our house. My dad was turning left when a truck slammed into the back of our car. Thankfully, we were all okay, though my mom got whiplash and had to wear a neck brace for months. While my parents sorted out the details of the accident, I had to sit in the farmhouse. The lady in the farmhouse put on The Wizard of Oz for me to watch. I cried the whole time. I cannot watch that movie now, and I get a little squeamish thinking about making a road trip to get apples. Still, even there you couldn't actually pick the apples off the tree. 

Even now, when The Hubs and I go to an apple/pumpkin farm north of Toronto to get our pumpkins at Halloween, you can't pick the apples from the tree. You can pick them out of a barrel, but that's it. And still, that seems pretty authentic. Maybe picking apples off a tree is just something that everyone can envision doing, but which doesn't actually happen in real life unless you are actually a farmer. 

But I guess if the gym instructor were to say "Like you're picking apples off the counter at the Rabba!", we wouldn't get as skinny, would we? And then I couldn't justify eating apple butter on toast every day.