Them Apples
How do you like them apples? This line from 1997’s Good Will Hunting is probably the only thing I clearly remember from the movie and it has been on my mind for months now. I’m a bit behind when it comes to posting so just like last month’s post was about something that happened in July, this one I’ve been ruminating on since September. You may be wondering why I keep thinking about it and the answer is simple - I was picking apples in September.
Now, I wasn’t just picking any apples. I was picking the most delicious apples that I’ve ever eaten and they were growing right up the hill from my house in my tiny orchard. I have been picking, baking, and snacking on these very locally grown Macoun apples since the 1980s and every fall I anticipate their arrival. Oh! The taste is like no other. They are both sweet and tangy and they are far superior to any apple found in the grocery store.
So on this particular sunny September day, I walked up to the orchard on a mission. I wanted to gather as many apples as possible so I could get to baking apple pies, crisps, loaves of bread, and cakes. However, picking apples from my ancient and overly neglected trees requires some ingenuity and assistance. That’s where having kids comes in handy. A still young at heart 9-year-old Hannah agreed to help and the insanity began. One of us (Hannah) had to climb up the tree as much as possible and toss and thick nylon strap around the branch. Once she climbed down, my duty of pulling on the strap and shaking the fruit-laden branch started. With each tug, apples began making Newton proud. They thudded onto the ground and we gathered them up. Then we would repeat the process. Our activity caught the attention of the goats, Nugget, Ethel, and Tiffany, and they decided they would come and eat whatever we failed to pick up.
Once I filled a paper grocery bag, I felt confident that I was ready to start the process of thoroughly enjoying the fruits of my labor. Hannah, on the other hand, didn’t seem as impressed by our bounty. She appeared somewhat disgusted. My Macouns weren’t very pretty. Some had bruises from the high fall and most had less than perfect skins from Mother Nature’s touch. Such is the way when you live on an organic piece of land. I do my best, but imperfections in the food I grow happen. Anyway, I assured her that underneath the not-so-pretty exterior was the most flavorful snow-white flesh (even if Snow White herself would turn these apples away). Hannah isn’t the first person to be wary of my apples, but after this wondering, I hope she’ll be the last.
I carried the bag into the house and picked out several of the largest apples fully intending to bake a pie with a buttery crust. I began paring the apples to expose their beautiful, tasty, nutritious flesh and much to Hannah’s surprise, I was right. Once the apples were pared and cored, the castoffs were put in a bowl for later use as horse treats, and then the making of a pie commenced.
I use the same apple pie recipe my Mom used (except for the crust because I prefer butter over Crisco) and I wear her homemade navy blue calico apron while I make a mess of the kitchen table. I use her pie plate and her rolling pin as well. That’s what happens when you inherit a house and everything in it. Sometimes it feels like history is repeating itself when I’m in my (Mom’s) kitchen.
Now, I can continue with the whole process of making and baking an apple pie, but that wouldn’t be fair to the millions of food bloggers out there who painstakingly photograph and write about their creations. I have no such patience, but I do plan on sharing what those apples got me wondering about.
After Hannah shared her uncertainty about the condition of my apples, I couldn’t help but peer into the bag and think about the phrase, “How do you like them apples?” because I knew that she was in for a surprise and I knew I would be able to teach her an important lesson about not judging a book by its cover. After all, the phrase is often used to tease someone or when surprising information is received. I think my Macouns and this idiom go perfectly together. I also think that our obsession with perfection is overrated and I can relate all too well to the flawed, easily dismissed apples.
I have lived nearly three-quarters of my life with scars. It’s been so long that I can’t remember what I looked like before the accident and the surgery that left me with them, but I can recall in perfect detail some of the cruel comments I had received when the scars were new and my self-esteem was fragile. I’m sure those of you who know me on an intimate level know exactly what I’m talking about, but for everyone else, I will share a very brief recounting of what happened because the full story could turn into a novel and you may be left feeling overwhelmed and emotional. None of us are ready for that kind of sharing.
What I will tell you is that at the age of twelve, I was accidentally shot in the abdomen with a 22-caliber rifle. The bullet pierced the flesh of my left forearm before it entered the lower left side of my abdomen and got lodged in my spine. Fortunately for me, the bullet didn’t hit major organs and stopped before it could damage my spinal cord. It did however nick my aorta and puncture my intestines multiple times. Of course, all of this was found out once I was rushed to the hospital, stripped down in the emergency room, X-rayed, and sent into surgery. My poor parents didn’t know if I was going live or die, walk or be paralyzed, recuperate, or require a colostomy bag. I just wanted to know if I’d still be able to ride horses. I can’t imagine what those hours in the waiting room were like while I was peacefully slumbering under anesthesia.
When I woke up in ICU I was groggy and feeling pretty good. Well, not exactly good but pain-free. I had tubes and wires everywhere. My bullet wounds were packed and a large bandage covered the 20 staples running down my abdomen. I don’t remember too much of that first night and the following day. That’s the beauty of narcotics. It wasn’t until they were stopped that I learned that abdominal surgery is awfully painful. My Mom explained to me what the surgeons had to do and that I was going to be just fine albeit I’d be living with a bullet in my spine. Removal was too risky and the chance of it shifting was small. I’d just have to be careful for a while. That’s when I cried. I wouldn’t be allowed to ride my horse or even take care of him. Funny, how a child’s brain works.
Well, I’m sure you know how it all worked out. I’m here and healthy with minimal complications. I ride horses and live a normal life. Yes, I have scars and a cool spot that shows up on X-rays, and have even set off a metal detector once or twice, but that day had a positive impact on my life too. I credit it for making me the person I grew up to be.
Before I was shot I was a typical 12-year-old girl. I was obsessed with horses, boys, and my changing body. After I was shot I was still obsessed with those things, but I became empathetic and old for my age. I stopped caring about fitting in and more about living my life. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t wilding it up. No, I was just being me, and when you’re going through puberty and teen years that’s not always so easy to do.
So how do you like them apples? Pretty crazy right? But the crazy part of the story is how people - peers and strangers alike - reacted to my scars. I managed to get through middle school in a haze of pain management meds and sideways glances. I entered high school pain-free, but alone. I started attending an all-girl catholic school and I didn’t think much of the smooth pale purplish skin that replaced the open wounds of my bullet holes and the eight-inch raised pink zipper that adorned my torso. I was just happy to be alive and riding horses again. It wasn’t until I was in the locker room getting changed for gym class when another girl recoiled at the sight of my scars that I became hyper-aware that I was different (and not in a good way). Needless, to say that was the last time I didn’t have a layer of clothing between me and my unmarred classmates.
Eventually, I got over being self-conscious. By the time I was an upperclassman I didn’t care what that girl or anyone else thought about my appearance. I had a great group of friends who knew my story and would never say anything hurtful to me. When I was faced with narrow-minded people, I knew how to handle them. That didn’t mean I wasn’t hurt by their comments, but at least I understood that they were the ones with the problem, not me. Looking back on it now, I guess the world we were living in was to blame for how my peers reacted to seeing my scars. The 90s were a time of supermodels, eating disorders, and unblemished appearances. My scars made them uncomfortable and they in turn tried to make me uncomfortable.
Once I was out into the real world with adults it didn’t seem so bad. After all, people fall ill, get injured, and have surgeries. Eventually, we all end up scarred in one way or another. That’s why 21-year-old weekend bartender me was completely taken aback when a customer saw my scars and unleashed some of the most hurtful words I’ve ever heard. I was merely reaching for some top-shelf liquor when my shirt rode up revealing my stomach. He immediately started saying that I should be embarrassed to let anyone see those disgusting things and in his altered state the insults kept coming. There I was with a full bar of mostly male patrons and this guy was shredding me to pieces. The irony of it was that he was no perfect specimen himself. He was a potbellied, red-faced, balding, middle-aged man but I did not sling one insult his way. Lucky for me, my parents owned the bar. I dumped his beer and had him escorted out. My mother banned him from ever coming into her establishment again. I bet he didn’t like those apples at all.
I find it abhorrent that people take it upon themselves to critique how others look without even knowing them. Did that degenerate of a bar patron know that I was a college student who would drive home every weekend to help her mother so she could have a night off to spend with my Dad? Would he have said those horrible things to me if he knew what my parents went through when I was shot? No, he didn’t know a thing about me. He just treated me as though I existed only to be looked at and when one small part of me didn’t fit his ideal he thought it was his right to tell me. I may have had imperfect skin but that man was rotten to his core.
Now that I am older and wiser, my physical appearance doesn’t seem so important, not to me or the people who love me. Strangers be damned. We’ve all had our hardships and everyone bears scars and imperfections from living. I have loved ones who have battled illness and needed surgeries that have forever changed how they look - missing hair, missing limbs, missing breasts, scars similar to mine- and I love them no less. They are still the same beautiful people inside that they always were. Maybe they are even more so because they, just like me, survived something traumatic and are grateful to be alive. I like to consider us all just a bunch of my sweet and tangy Macoun apples, not the most visually appealing, but nourishing and delightful on the inside with a whole lot of zest for life.
Thank you for wondering along with me. I hope my sharing this has given you something to wonder about. I offer you my mother’s Apple Pie recipe so you too can enjoy some sweetness in your life.
Double crust
2 cups all-purpose flour, 1 teaspoon salt, 2/3 cups shortening, 7 tablespoons cold water
Stir together flour and salt. Cut in shortening till pieces are pea-size. Add water one tablespoon at a time and gently toss. Form the dough into a ball and divide. Flatten and roll flat to form a 12” diameter circle.
Apple pie filling
6 cups thinly sliced apples (2 pounds), 1 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons flour,
1 teaspoon cinnamon, a dash of nutmeg, 1 tablespoon butter
Combine sugar, spices, and flour add to apples, and toss to coat. Fill the pastry-lined pie plate and dot it with butter. Adjust the top crust, seal, and flute edge. Cover the edge of the pie with foil. Bake at 375 for 25 minutes. Remove foil and back for another 20 to 25 minutes or until crust is golden. Cool and serve.
