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  • Apples didn't always come with nifty stickers on them.

    Playing at my aunts you'd wind up with apples smashed under your shoes while playing under her fruit trees.

    Grapes grew, strung up on wires. They didn't taste like the grapes you bought at stores. Sweet on first contact with tongue followed by a deeply bitter spicy bite that filled your throat.

    Rasberries - fresh, unwashed (watch out for ants...aunts...and bees) filling the mouth with sweet goodness and staining fingers red.

    And apples. Kept in buckets. Each variety. There were 3 or 4. At the orchard up the hill there were many more. We knew the guy. But then that was usually the case. You grew your own...or you knew the one who grew.

    I worry about younger generations who have never met the men who grew their food. Who do not know that burgers come from cows. French fries for potatoes. And that mushy apples, frozen and released 4 months out of season, are a far cry from fresh and crispy fruit fresh off the tree.

    Apples (and other things that grow on vines and trees) were the link to our neighbors. To our bellies. And we knew. We knew what it took to make them grow. And that...Love that was put into the planting, fertilizing, watering, growing, pruning, picking. That was what made them apples taste so good.
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