Apples to applesauce

You know how you'll scan a recipe (or whatever) in a magazine, and you just can't let go of it? It's like an earworm, but...an ideaworm. I am very prone to this. (Awhile back, I read the words "chocolate chip cookies" in a book and Had To Make Them.) Back in the summer, I read about making applesauce in a crock pot, and I haven't been able to let go of the idea since.

And wouldn't you know it? My route home from the race on Saturday had the option of passing not one but two apple orchards. (My friend Sara's eyes might be flaring at this point in the post because we have a standing orchard date for the fall, after our magnificent trip last year. But rest assured, Sara, that I am still ready to collect more apples, because I didn't actually pick my own on this trip.)

Yes, that's right. After the race, I arrived at Aamodt's Apple Farm in Stillwater full of energy and ready to harvest some apples. But as soon as I got out of the car, even with the sweatshirt and my uber-warm pink fleece, I was still bombarded with the inevitable post-race chill. (It's nothing fancy or dramatic. I just get really, really cold.)

Thus I decided to grab a bunch of apples instead from the orchard's store, which was pretty crowded and pretty cute.

And maybe it was a little bit of a cop-out to pick apples from the comfort of a cozy store instead of venturing into the orchard, but it was still exciting to have this as my option instead of the grocery store:

I selected 17 Haralsons, paid for them and headed back toward the car. I might have ended up with a box of freshly-popped hot kettle corn to take home with me. Oh, my.

The next day, I got to business. I used this recipe, which I had randomly chosen via Google because I liked the ingredient list: eight apples, a cinnamon stick, brown sugar, lemon peel and lemon juice.

Start:

Halfway:

Ready for cooking!

Caution: This makes one's home smell like apple pie for the better part of a Sunday afternoon, which makes one actually want apple pie.

The final result? Almost as good as apple pie, especially if your first serving is served hot in a bowl with a little scoop of vanilla bean ice cream on top. (It's also good mixed into oatmeal.)

This is just about the easiest project in the world: I chopped the apples, and you don't even have to do that - even if they were just sliced, the apples just break down into applesauce texture over time in the crock pot. I didn't even have to blend it.

I have the feeling this is going to become a regular Sunday routine around Miles and Laurel.

An afternoon at Whistling Well

Reader, if the words "Sunday afternoon" and "autumn" and "apple orchard" went together any better, they'd, like, rhyme - or at least alliterate more than 80 percent.  Visiting an apple orchard is far from an annual activity for me.  I've run a race in one with my mom (very fun!) but I can't remember ever actually picking apples at one.  Until today!

The weather was perfect for late September:


Cold enough for a sweater...

...and warm enough for sandals!



 

I set out for this expedition with my friend Sara.  Because our schedules rarely coincide neatly, our activities tend to be of the movie-watching, tea-drinking, and neighborhood-walking variety around town.  Earlier in the week, we realized that we both had Sunday afternoon seriously open for adventure.  To the eastern metro we went!  Our destination: Afton.  More specifically, the St. Croix Trail, which is loaded with orchards!

Here is a good example of why Sara is great.  Just up the road from the orchard, we passed a baseball field with something that looked out of the ordinary taking place on it.  "What's that?" she said. "It looks, like, Civil War baseball players?" I ventured.  We kept driving.  A minute later, Sara said, "Should we turn around?" and I said, "Yes."

We pulled into the field's parking lot, and I was content to just watch the strange scene of a Civil War-era baseball reenactment unfolding.  But Sara noticed one of the players still getting ready at his car, which was next to ours.  She cranked down her window.

"Excuse me...what is this?!" Sara asked him, and I burst out laughing.

"It's 1860s baseball," the man explained. "You should stay and watch!"

He turned around and started walking to the field.

"We're going to the apple orchard!" Sara exclaimed.

He turned around. "What?"

"We're going to the apple orchard!  But maybe we'll come back to watch afterward."

We continued onward until we reached our destination. 

Its specialties: apples, fall mums, and pumpkins.  Lots of pumpkins. Lots of apples.  Lots of squash, too.  I obviously wasn't keeping a good eye out for fall mums.

We got our bags and learned that each peck (10 pounds of apples) cost $18.  If you are seeking context, rest assured that my scientific analysis proves that 10 pounds is technically an enormous amount of apples.  We headed merrily down the trail toward the rows of Haralson and Honey Crisp trees.  Sara, being a veteran of farms and this kind of stuff, took the lead.  She dove into the trees and started picking. 

 

I caught up.  By the end, we both had full bags of apples.
 

Of course, the apples were beautiful. 

My only regret is that we didn't take one of the red wagons.  This one seemed to be abandoned.

Back at the apple shack - no, the right word is probably the barn - we checked out the farm animals (goats, chickens and a donkey) and the pumpkin supply, which was plentiful.

Sara and I even asked a kind young mother if she would take our photo.  We walked up from behind and Sara called dibs on the pumpkin really quickly. 

It was a perfecto afternoon.  Twin Cities readers: if you remotely like apples, the outdoors, farms, or fun things, I highly recommend this region of apple orchards.  Ours was Whistling Well Farm, but you can see on the map that there are four or five orchards in very close proximity - and it's all just half an hour away.  We used our interest in procuring caramel apples as an excuse to check out another orchard, and it was fun to see the different character and vibe of that farm.

And yes, you'd better believe that we took our caramel apples and apple cider and hightailed it back to the baseball game.  We watched the last couple of innings and got to see the team captains each perform rousing speeches about the great game of baseball after the last out was recorded.  There were some confusing parts - apparently, in 1860s baseball, you can let the ball bounce on the ground and still count it as an out without throwing to first base - and I sure don't remember who won.  But the guys - and were they ever a motley mix - were having a blast!  We Sara talked with one of the spectators next to us and learned that this game was the last in an occasional matchup through the summer.  Sometimes the best adventures are detours, no?

As soon as I got home, I assessed the apples.  I peeled them and then chopped them up.  We all know where this is going, right?

 

Hint: it smells like apple crisp in here!  Happy Sunday night!