It's the time of year I spend my evenings whiling away the hours in the apple trees.....It's not what you think. Erase the image of the dreamy ,English country-side , Jane-Austen vision you may have. The hammock sways empty.
It's me on a slippery, mossy slope bent like an ancient woman picking up the bruised windfall apples.
These little knobby gems pelt down from the sky with the rustling of the slightest breeze....easily filling bucket upon bucket. The day awaits that I will be beamed in the head by one of these emerald orbs.
And like Snow White... why, oh why can I not resist the temptation to taste one of these sour treats? They trick me every year with their plump apple-y appearance.....only to leave me with a sour-puss that only years of botched face lifts could achieve.
So why the self inflicted torture of collecting these crabbies you may ponder? I suppose it's the thought of all those little sour pretties being left unwanted that bothers me. Or perhaps the happy squeals of the pigs when they see me coming with a brimming bucket of windfall goodies.