Last night, after driving home in the first wet, cold, rainy night of fall, I walked into my house (er, my parents house) to the intoxicating smell of burning firewood. This, combined with the crackling sound of the hearth, made me feel that Fall had finally arrived. And not just any Fall, but the season of my childhood. I realized it had been nearly seven years since I’d been home for the arrival of this oh-so-iconically-Ohio time of year.
Of course, this is the land of Johnny Appleseed, so you can imagine the pies, crisps, and sauces that are created with bushel upon bushel of apples. This doesn’t mean that I didn’t have any wonderful apple-filled memories from my previous homes. In France, we would spend our last euros on two liter bottles of fresh fresh apple juice from the market. In Luxembourg, each September would mean the hike up to the top of the apple hill where you’d find row upon row of perfectly manicured apple orchards (in addition to apple wine, butter, and liquor).
So here’s to apples! The bountiful fruit of my favorite season!