I haven't gone apple picking in years. Mainly because I barely eat healthy food that I can buy from a grocery store, let alone having to traipse around outside and gather it for myself like some sort of early settler.
But it's fall in New England, and this is just one of the things you're supposed to do. Plus for the first time in weeks, we actually had a day off together. For all of you out there with normal schedules (or "real" jobs, as Steve calls them), it's probably no big deal for you and your husband/life partner/cat to carve out some quality time to spend together. For us, it's slightly more difficult due to our unconventional schedules, hence why we often eat dinner at 9:30 pm.
Mondays are our Sundays, in that we can usually swing being off together and doing errands and grocery type things. Correction: Steve goes to the grocery store on Monday and I sleep in until he comes home and so rudely wakes me. But this is also the day where we do couple things, like go to the gym together. Okay, so that's not normal either. But I did go with him yesterday, which was a mistake because he made me do level four on the elliptical. LEVEL FOUR.
After this, the plan was to go apple picking at Steve's beloved childhood farm Tougas in Northborough. And by that I mean he went there as a child, not that he used to live on a farm. Ew. But since this was our only day off together, we had to do other less fun grown up things too- like look at mattresses. Yep. Lindsay and Steve's Apple Picking/Mattress Buying Day of Fun.
So we headed off to his beloved Tougas. I had obviously dressed for the occasion with the perfect ensemble for a crisp fall day. Or at least, what I thought was perfect.
Steve: What are you wearing?
Me: This is my apple picking outfit. Well, apple picking or if I was going to sit in a ski lodge. I would have to change the boots though.
Steve: Okay, you are inappropriately dressed for BOTH OF THOSE THINGS.
Me: What am I supposed to wear?
Steve: I don't know... SNEAKERS?!
BTW, there was a slight pit stop on the way to the farm because we realized that my car was overdue for an inspection. Whoopsie. We all know what happened last time I let that one go. Apparently, I looked slightly out of place at the local body shop.
Steve: You look so inner city right now.
Me: Okay I really hope you mean "city."
Steve: Whatever, you don't belong here.
Me: I KNOW.
By this point it was almost three o'clock. But it didn't matter! Because even if it killed us, we were going to pick those damn apples. As we drove up to the farm, with rows of apple trees lining the quaint New England windy roads, we envisioned all the amazing things we'd do with our foraging. Well, Steve envisioned and I crushed all of his dreams. He had to think outside the box because he already knew of my disdain for apple pie (I KNOW, I'm horrible, stop reminding me).
Steve: I could make apple crisp.
Me: Eh, I don't really like soggy apples.
Steve: If you make it right, they're not soggy.
Me: Okay, then I don't like cooked apples. I don't like chunks of cooked apples in things that are supposed to be dessert.
Steve: Well then, excuse my language, but you are just shit out of luck. Your mouth is not a fun place.
Me (the most offended I've ever been): WHAT?!
Steve: I'm sorry, but for the person you are, your taste buds are bland. You like plain cupcakes-
Steve: Plain. You like brownies, and that's it. Oh wait, you like the worst frosting in the world- fondant. No one likes the taste of fondant. Your palate is BORING.
Of course, after that exchange, I was determined to be a fun person to do things with. I was going to frolic around that damn orchard with the best of them. I was going to look fabulous while picking apples that I was going to eat uncooked right off the core. It was going to be the best fall day he's ever had in his twenty seven years on this earth.
Until we got to the farm and found out it was closed.
Yep. You know our Sunday? No matter what way you slice it, it's still Monday. And they're open Tuesday-Sunday.
It was soul-crushing.
We sulked a little while around their farmstand and ate our emotions in the form of homemade sandwiches and apple cider donuts. I took the opportunity to take pictures of at least some fall paraphernalia because I knew that by the time we had another day off together, there would probably be snow on the ground. Which could technically be October, but still.
Instead of crying in the parking lot or just stealing apples off of the closest trees to the road (both of which I considered in my inner emotional meltdown), Steve used the powers of technology and some website that he found that helps you find where you can pick things. I'm serious- this is how he found the Christmas tree farm. And we all know how that turned out.
The closest place was Honeypot Hill Orchards in Stow. So there we went. And it was glorious. Mainly because they let us in.
You have to decide when you walk in how many apples you're going to pick. If they would let you choose like four I'd be all over it.
Sixty mother-effin apples. And a few pears for good measure (I don't eat those either).
Did I mention that Steve is allergic to red apples?
Know what does spoil the fun? All the cautionary signage warning us about the dangers of careless apple picking.
|i could use a double alright.|
I let Steve do most of the apple handling. But I helped too.
Did I say help? I meant pose for pictures in my poncho sweater with as many props as I could find.
|hey look what I found.|
Actually I did pick something:
Yep. All me.
All in all, it was a really great day. Even though Steve refused to buy me a caramel apple. He thinks paying for a single apple on a stick covered in delicious caramel is ridiculous after he's already lugged sixty apples around an orchard for an hour that were already ours. What a weirdo.
|a happy weirdo.|
|and we did.|
If you don't hear from me in a while, it's because I'm drowning in applesauce. Which I also don't like.