Each autumn, the apple tree in my garden drops mounds of
ripe fruit on my yard. And every year I leave them to rot while I drive an hour
west to pay for privilege of picking someone else’s apples.
I’m not alone in my desire to flee my neighborhood at the first
hint of an autumn breeze.
Alongside a host of other nature-starved suburbanites, I descend
on an orchard in rural Illinois. My wing-women and I jockey for position.
However, it’s always important to give advice to the
neophytes.
Eventually, I end up with a peck of apples both inferior to
and more expensive than the ones the orchard sells in their barn.
And like the true suburbanite I am, I return home to bake
pies --
