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 --