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Holy crapples

My world continues to provide! It’s awesome. I am drawn, against my will, but inevitably towards the conclusion that I am some sort of fertility goddessling to my garden. I walk amongst it, and it lowers branches laden with glory towards my tender fingertips. Shit yeah. I ate the last of our plums this week. It was fantastic: we had so many plums that I felt decadent and indulged, but never so many that I worried they would go to waste before we got to eat them.

A coworker brought and shared a sack of apples she had been given by a neighbour, who was labouring under the excess thereof: midcrunch, I remembered that I, too, have an apple tree! If these were ripe and tasty (and they were), couldn’t mine be similarly ripe and similarly tasty? A quick pre-work plucking procured a specimen to confirm my hypothesis — my apples were small, perfectly-formed and ready to go. Before breakfast today, I went out and got some more.


Many more. Now, there are a couple of things: one is that I don’t know enough about apples to say with 100% confidence that these are ripe green-skinned apples and not unripe pink- or red-skinned apples. But they taste good already, so why wait? My stomach had a chance to lodge any objections with the test-taste specimen I tried earlier, and reported none, so I say they’re ready. Besides, this is my bounty. I’ll eat it when I’m damn well ready to! Who are you to tell me — wait, sorry, got carried away.  Happy apples, happy apples, happy bethini.

Another thing is that, as the observant will no doubt have, uh, observed, some of these apples bear wee dimples and pockmarks. Which is a twee and euphemistic way of saying some of them got munched by bugs. Codling moth, the interwebz tell me, is the scourge of the home apple-grower, particularly if you are disinclined to use chemicals on your plants, like me, but so far? Nothing. As in, no grubs, no eggs or wriggly horrors of any variety.  I’m still going to err on the side of caution and check as I go — my garden is a delight of abundance, but if any of its offerings have feet, I’m not really interested.

They’re tasty! I had one for breakfast: homemade rye toast with peanut butter and homegrown apples. I feel so wholesome and off-the-grid. No wonder my garden loves to offer up snackrifices to me. I would if I were an apple tree and I were walking nearby and…hang on, that’s confusing. (And mildly erotic.)

Eat breakfast and wield a big knife.

Did I mention I discovered a peach tree in the front yard? And then I discovered it wasn’t a peach tree but an almond tree? How awesome is that? Not only is there an abundance of fruit all over my garden, but nuts too! Nuts! That’s protein! At this rate, leaving my garden is getting less and less interesting.

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