Yesterday we went apple picking. Little now-taller-than-me Philou came too, but none of his older brothers did. We filled our bucket with cortland, spartan and redcort, plump and juicy and crisp, my son reaching higher and higher for the best apples. On the other side of the orchard a crowd of families sought the immediate sweetness of honeycrisp, but those trees had already been picked almost bare. The sun angled across the rows of trees, surprising us with its post-equinox strength, reddening the pale Irish skin of Philou and me.
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| Saturday at Verger Labonté |
Today I made an apple pie, cooling it in the fresh breeze passing through the house. It tasted of late season, of another summer passing, of children who will soon no longer be children. It was comforting and sweet with a hint of tartness.
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| Sunday on Côte-Saint-Antoine |
Tomorrow and the day after I'll remember the Saturday in autumn when we went apple picking.
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