As I sat by my window today, watching the leaves tossed about by gusts of wind, I was taken back to evenings spent by the fire, playing Scattergories or Apples to Apples with my family. We used to live up the hill from a grave yard and after large, family dinners, we would get bundled up and stroll along the rows of old tombstones, our hair swept by the wind, holding hands in each other's pockets. Then we would walk back and get into our PJ's to sit around the fire drinking tea and munching on Mom's persimmon pound-cake.
I went to grade school in Northern California, where there were many orchards. Each year the families from my school would come out to pick apples and press into Heavenly Apple Juice, which we sold to raise money for our school. I remember running around with my friends, picking apples, only to eat them or to see who could throw them the farthest. There were usually blackberries to pick and by the end of the day our hands were stained and sticky. The kids would take turns rotating the large handle as the others watched the stream of juice trickling into the bucket. My best friend, Sierra, lived in an orchard and had a press in her yard. Our friend, Danny, who lived nearby, often came over to play, and the three of us ran around picking apples and gathering them in our shirts to put through the press. After we grew tired we ran into the kitchen and grabbed the largest bowls and began throwing ingredients into them -- a few fist-fulls of flour and a shake of cinnamon in one and three or four eggs with a dash of milk in another. Apples were brought-in to add to the dough, and pretty soon the air was filled with the scent of sugar and spice. Our recipes were impromptu concoctions which smelled great, looked like we had sat on them and were marginally edible. We preferred the salty-sweet squares of chocolate-chip cookie dough in her freezer to our apple-pie-muffins and cobbler-cookies.
One of my favorite fall desserts is my mother's apple cobbler. It is sweet, but not too sweet and the apples are neither too soft nor too hard. She has struck the perfect ratio of fruit to topping so that you have a bit of each with every bite, with a few more apples than oats. It is always better the next day. When she takes it out of the oven, the house fills with the warm smell of brown sugar and cinnamon. You can't wait to dig in, to eat those soft slices of apple, the raisins plump with sweet juice and the caramelized crunch of the oats as they crumble and stick to your teeth.
The Japanese call this time of year momiji-gari, which roughly means hunting for leaves. Fall is the time for frolicking in wind, picking apples, catching the falling leaves, or sitting by the fire with family and friends and a bowl of freshly baked cobbler.
Beautiful post, Becca.
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