Speak to me of Apples by LJ Cohen The birds are singing in this last full day of summer. I could tell them about the dangers of frost, but I am the one who needs the reminder, the farmers almanac, the five-day forecasts. Even the dog knows when to stop shedding. I buy strawberries out of season, seduced by the red heart roundness, pay the price for my unnatural desires. I draw the line at hothouse roses. Its not that they arent beautiful, but they remind me of funerals and flowers without scent are somehow worse than mealy berries, white nap of mold hidden underneath. Sun-dried tomatoes are red enough to remind me of summer, sharp enough to cut through the starched stiff collar of potatoes, just sweet enough to claim kinship with apples. And apples are the black sheep relations of roses made good. So please forgive me if I dote on apples; courtlands, jonagolds, macouns, and the nameless ones my neighbor lets rot in his front yard. They are my autumn roses, their blushing full cheeks brushing each other in the bowl like European kisses. I am a sucker for ridiculous bounty, for that last surge of sap, of pollen, and the frantic thrumming of bees.
Posted on: Thu, 25 Sep 2014 16:58:22 +0000
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