Apples on a fall day

What a beautiful day we had today! After one last week of 100-degree weather, fall blew in last night with a lot of dust and noise -- but he's finally here!

Nevermind that we're sniffling and coughing from our first fall cold, I don't even mind. (I'm clearly feeling better than yesterday...) The boys don't seem to care either -- they were just excited to put on pants this morning and then go out to rake the leaves that blew down yesterday.


Middlest declared it a First Day of Fall holiday -- which meant we needed to bake something! Fortunately we just went apple-picking on Monday! Friends invited us up to Tehachapi, and after a fun, full day of playing and baking, we came home with four big bags of apples to munch and bake up at home.


Yum! I suppose apple pie isn't exactly what the doctor ordered, but it's pretty close. ;)



And in honor of all those farmers who care for the orchards that allow us to eat apple pie...

After Apple-Picking by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.