porky dickens

Do you know what it’s like to live your whole entire life in a constant state of flinch? Well, I do. My sister can not help herself but to throw things. Perhaps you know a person like this. When we were little and my mom would bake bread or make homemade pizza dough she would use our big kitchen counter as her work space. There would be scraps, hunks and balls of dough lying around all over the place. If you thought perhaps you would be able to visit my house without being beaned off the top of the head with a hunk of raw dough, well, you had another thing coming.

Heather has, since my earliest memory, been throwing things at my head. For a lefty, she has a pretty good aim and almost always makes her mark. The process goes a little something like this: throw, (thud) when dough/roll hits person (usually me) in head, Heather then lets out a loud cackle and, depending on her liquid intake that day, pees her pants. This sequence happens in short order and it is as much a family tradition as French donuts and quiche on Christmas morning. Her arsenal of good-throwin’ objects includes, but is not limited to: raw bread dough, fully cooked dinner rolls, play dough, bouncy balls (any size) and on one unfortunate occasion, a breakfast sausage link. Visiting friends and family members alike have become accustomed to her. Either they develop faster reflexes or they just learn to fight back.



Now if you know someone like my sister, probably the last thing you’re ever going to want to do with them is take them to an apple orchard. There is ammunition EVERYWHERE, all of which is in varying stages of decay. The decay ups the chances that the apple, when it comes into contact with your skull, will splatter. This is hugely awesome for someone who likes to throw things at other people. Something hits you in the head while you’re unsuspectingly picking apples: awesome. Said something that hits you in the head splatters apart: double awesome. Fallen apples are by far one of the most disgusting, and therefore highly sought after, forms of ammunition for someone like my sister. Heather doesn’t say “let’s go apple picking” she says “I can’t wait to go apple hucking.” So much so that the term apple hucking has become part of our fall vernacular.

Me I don’t so much like to huck apples. Partly because I am such a bad throw, I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, but also partly because I’m mostly trying to get through the apple picking part of the day as quickly as possible so I can get to the donut eating, cider drinking part of the day, and then later the part of the day where you make something delicious with your apples that fills your house with cinnamon-y smells. So if you come apple picking with me, don’t expect to get beaned off the top of your head with apples. Instead, if you find me ‘round the orchard, no need to flinch, I will be too busy doing any of the following activities:

Enlisting the help of some pint sized assistants:



Becoming obsessed with the wee baby apples:



Thinking to myself “good lawd, how is it possible I am this pale already?”



Taking more pictures of apples than the average parent takes of their first born children.



Baking those very apples into tiny hand pies. Maybe channeling a little Martha and wrapping those pies with wax paper and string for a photo op. Jeez, so corny, I might as well have dressed the pies up in a doggy tutu or some other ridiculousness.



You might also see me getting so lazy and tired of folding together tiny pies that I scoop the remainder of the crust/ apple filling up and dump it all into a rather messy galette-ish type creation.



You might also see me dropping said galette face down onto the filthy stairs of my apartment as I try to carry in the groceries, laundry, lunch bag and (unused) gym clothes in one carry. You might also hear some swear words.

But then the next night you might see me fearlessly tackle yet another apple dessert. Opting this time for the easy peas-y crowd pleasing, cheap, I-have-all-the-ingredients-right-here Apple Crisp.



You might hear me say multiple times while peeling, coring, chopping, sugaring and crumble-making say something to the effect of “I got her numbah. How do you like them apples?” You might think I am complete tool for this, but I will say it approximately 14 times. And maybe even once more while writing this.



You might also hear me being a total dork and saying "apples, prepare to meet your maker" while staging the above photo. I mean what do you expect? I titled my last blog post "Porky Chickens" for god's sake. I'm a total corn ball.



You might see me do all of these things with apples, but you won’t see me throwing them at your head. At least, you won’t see me hitting you in the head, like I said, I’m a bad shot. Luckily I’ve got my sister for that.

Recipes to come.