slumped shoulders and naked ladies
or; a recipe for baked apples with butter and dates
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“Oh, look at all those naked ladies by the side of the road!” my grandmother would gleefully shout as we flew down the curvy road on our way to Sebastapol. My brother and I in the back would whip our heads out the windows, craning our necks desperately to get a look while furtively stealing a glance at our mother in the front seat to check for dissaproval. We found out she just meant flowers, amaryllis belladonna, a bulb that blooms in autumn. They are so called because they have no leaves, just long stalks with pink flowers atop. Dissapointed, we’d flop our backs into the seat, slumping our shoulders and rolling our eyes as our grandmother laughed, wondering how much longer till we were there and waiting for apples. The first apples of the year were always a delight.
When we were small, my mom and grandma would take us on a day roadtrip to Sebastapol every year in early August to pick up crates of Gravenstein apples, an old heirloom variety with an unmistakable floral fragrance, green skin faintly striped with blush and red. We’d have lunch at the apple place, then drive back, the apples filling the car with their heady fragrance. We’d eat apple after apple, our fingers sticky with juice, as our mother admonished that we’d be sick. What followed was weeks of apple pies, apple cakes, apple crisp, and canning, applesauce. I don’t remember my mom ever baking whole apples, just my grandma on occassion. She’d have us scoop out the core with a small sharp spoon, then stuff in as much butter and brown sugar as we liked, lacing the whole thing with cinnamon before popping it in the oven alongside whatever else was roasting for dinner. A perfect and easy after dinner treat, the apples emerge mere shadows of themselves, shoulders slumped and collapsed, resting in a pool of sticky sweet buttery juices.
The farm we used to go to, along with many other Gravenstein purveyors, has long since closed, but we’ve found another, and I take my children every year on the same pilgrimage for apples. Now I’m the one shouting out to look for naked ladies, and laughing as my kids groan. They already know the deal. But, they put up with it for apples.
