After Apple Picking
Apple Butter, French Apple Tart, and Apple Grilled Cheese
Something you might not know about me: I have three copies of The Poetry of Robert Frost, complete and unabridged. The first was the copy in my parents’ book collection that I started keeping in my bedroom at some point in my early teens and never gave back. The second was from my high school boyfriend, inscribed with a poem he wrote that’s so tender I still can’t bring myself to read it through. The third I won for some reason my senior year of high school. If anyone out there has also had the experience of winning one thing in your whole life when you already have two of that thing, let me know. We can start a support group or something.
I am no Frost scholar, nor even an adequate interpreter of his work, but I’ve always loved it. I think I was first drawn to it because of my bus ride to high school, which was through forests and fields, past an apple orchard, and through a bucolic town center with barn-red houses, steeples, and saltbox roofs. I could feel the poetry of it and Frost put words to those feelings: the landscape was thick with generations of people and nature intertwined in dramas both big and small. Frost really got it, you know? I also liked his interest in hard work – I was very studious, laboring with my mind at all times – and his turns towards the dark and trippy.
“After Apple Picking,” from his second book of poems North of Boston published in 1914, is my favorite. When I read it for the umpteenth time the night of my high school graduation, because that was the sort of thing I did when I had feelings (I also sat in the dark crying to the 1812 Overture, Sarah Vaughan, and/or Beethoven’s Emperor piano concerto), it “hit different,” as the youth say. I hope you read the full poem, as it is beautiful, psychedelically dreamy, and even mentions a woodchuck; you’ll relate to it if you’ve ever toiled tirelessly and dissolved into sleep bordering on hibernation. But the opening of the poem was what struck me that day:
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now.
I instantaneously interpreted it metaphorically, and it was a balm. I had unfinished business, unharvested fruits: friendships that went sideways, words left unsaid, work un-perfected, songs unsung, races unrun. But there was no going back to fix or finish any of it. These lines taught me that it’s alright to survey your hard but imperfect work and – simply, uncomplicatedly – leave it behind. They helped me accept the imperfections of an era of my tiny life. And now, every time I go through a transition, I re-read this poem to find peace with the finality of change and transform any regrets into objective observations. You just can’t harvest every apple from every tree.
You might be concerned that I’ve let an emotional and dubious reading of six lines about apples influence my worldview so much. But I think this is an example of art doing what it’s supposed to do. It shows us our own reflections and lets us develop our own personal creeds. This poem opened my eyes to a constellation of lessons from apple orchards. Most of the work is unobserved and uncelebrated, like the work most of us do, yet it is done steadfastly. Dropped apples become cider, yellowjacket food, or fertilizer for next year’s crop, much like failures, forays, and “wastes of time” fuel and shape our future experiences. The orchard is a place of ordered rows, disciplined experimentation, and heavy-handed intervention, yet nature always has the final say. I feel deep peace in an apple orchard, particularly in the late afternoon when the brilliant golden sunlight makes the apples look lit from within, because I know that humans, pollinators, and the elements will continue conspiring to produce acres of jewel-studded trees for generations to come. (Please don’t remind me of pesticides and climate change at this moment. Let me have my romanticization.)
So I love apples, and recently found myself with 45 of them. The Instagram community helped me figure out how to tackle this situation. I made a French apple tart to celebrate the taste of apples unadorned with flavorings other than butter and sugar. It was rustic, beautiful, and delicious. Have it with vanilla ice cream and try it with turbinado or cane sugar, if you have it. (Do move it off the parchment paper quickly, as the caramel sets fast.) And then I made apple butter for the first time. The house smelled like spiced cider all afternoon and the butter itself is sweet and well-spiced. Stir it into yogurt. Spread it on toast with salted butter. Have it in a decadent rosemary-shallot infused grilled cheese sandwich, the recipe for which is also below.
I hope that you enjoy these apple treats as much as I do, that you can share them with people you love, and that we all absorb the wisdom of these marvelous fruits. Have a great week and thank you as always for reading.
Happy eating and gathering,
Katie
Apple Butter
By Alison Roman in NYT Cooking
Makes 4 cups
Note: I followed the recipe exactly, because I do as Alison Roman tells me, and I did get a very sweet apple butter. I think you can adjust the sugar down to your taste. I have the palate of a child and do not mind the sweetness at all. Also, I used cane sugar instead of granulated sugar, which seems to give the final product some additional slightly molasses-y flavor.
There is some splattering, so be prepared for that, and stir frequently to prevent the apple butter from sticking on the bottom of your pot.
Ingredients
4 pounds apples (about 10 to 12 medium), washed, unpeeled, uncored, cut into 1-inch chunks ½ cup apple cider vinegar 3 allspice berries 2 cinnamon sticks 1 2-inch piece of ginger, peeled and sliced 1 star anise pod 1¼ cups granulated sugar 1 cup light brown sugar Small pinch kosher salt
Combine apples, vinegar, allspice berries, cinnamon sticks, ginger, star anise pod, and 4 cups water in a large, heavy bottomed pot over high heat. Bring to a simmer and reduce heat to medium-low. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the apples are completely softened and the liquid has reduced by half, 30 to 40 minutes. (Some pieces of apple might float at first; they will sink and become submerged as they soften.) Remove from heat and let cool slightly.
Leaving behind allspice berries, cinnamon sticks and star anise pod, pass the apples through a food mill. (Alternatively, working in batches, ladle apples into a strainer or colander, and using a ladle, wooden spoon or spatula, press apples to pass pulp through, leaving behind seeds and skin.)
Place apple pulp in the same large, heavy-bottomed pot, add granulated sugar and light brown sugar and stir to dissolve. Cook on medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until mixture is thick, glossy and a deep golden brown (somewhere between honey and molasses), 2 to 2½ hours. (Around the 1½-hour mark, things will start to bubble rather violently. Stirring constantly will help, but expect, and be careful of, a few splatters.) To test the thickness, spoon a bit onto a plate: The mixture should set almost immediately with no spreading or wateriness. If it’s not there yet, cook another 8 to 10 minutes and test again. When the desired consistency is reached, season with kosher salt.
Grilled Cheese With Apples and Apple Butter
Simplified from Susan Spungen in NYT Cooking
Heat a large, 12-inch skillet over medium-high. Add 1 tablespoon butter, then add 1 sliced apple, 1 small thinly sliced shallot, 1 teaspoon chopped rosemary, and a pinch of salt. Cook, tossing occasionally, until apples are golden and softened, 8 to 10 minutes, reducing the heat if shallots threaten to burn. Transfer mixture to a plate; set aside.
Heat 1-2 tablespoons butter in the skillet. For each sandwich you are making: spread 1 tablespoon apple butter on each slice of bread. Top one slice with 1-2 ounces of sharp cheddar (I suggest grating for easier melting), and top the other slice with some of the apple mixture. Put each slice in the skillet topping-side up and cover for 5-7 minutes until the cheese is melted and the bread is golden and crispy. Manage the heat so nothing burns. Assemble each sandwich and have a great lunch.
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