“For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;”
T.S. Elliott - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
As time has had abstract meaning out here on the farm, I have been measuring out my days in coffee spoons… and in produce. The days should no longer be named “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday…” but rather “Apples, Carrots, Potatoes…”. My fingers feel as though they have been literally worked to the bone. Forget Chinese torture of putting wooden splinters under your fingernails; take a morning pulling carrots, a noonday of washing said carrots and an afternoon of chopping the squeaky clean carrots and you’ll know what I mean. It is dirty, monotonous (even painful on the hands) but therapeutic work.
If you have not visited the garden a few steps down from the view from this kitchen, you may not know what I speak of. The dimensions of the produce patch can be astounding. I do not exaggerate when I say that the amount of vegetables in this garden could and would feed several families for several weeks. The garden (apparently) has been held back this year. The carrot row, for example, is down to just one row instead of two (which is due only to the fact that the family could not get through everything over one winter). Really? How many carrots could you possibly eat with this smaller harvest? An entire medium sized fridge is full of carrots. Nothing but carrots. Bagged carrots, quartered carrots, sliced carrots, sticked carrots. Now we can make carrot muffins, carrot soup, cooked carrots (bleck) but, thank goodness, not carrot butter.
This morning I went out and found more apples fresh off the ‘good tree’. It’s almost like a Biblical parallel to Genesis for the kids here. Just ask Joelle… they are ‘forbidden’ to pick apples off the ‘good tree’. They are, however, allowed to self-feed off the crab apple tree. There is something nostalgic of watching my son climb the apple tree out back with his cousins – it makes me ecstatic to see him enjoying an integral part of childhood while consuming copious amounts of fruit.
The parallel could be extended to the rest of the farm… there is something Eden-like here in the natural beauty and peacefulness of the land and garden. Except when it comes to canning season… then I see how we are toiling on this earth. The processing of said apples is fascinating. I think, however, that I will no longer be able to face an apple after this experience.
Take apple butter as an example. One morning I took the infant out in a hip sling and picked apples for two hours. We picked a foot wide path around the tree at my arm height. Five bags and one box of crab apples later, we arrived in the house triumphant. Or so I thought. Little did I know my work had just begun. First, I had to slice off sections for the dehydrator (to make dried apples for snacks). Then I had to take the cores and quarter them for cooking. Then I had to go back and take off the stems. No stems. Right. While I took the batch of apples from the ‘good tree’ to slice, my sister started on the apple butter production.
I am not oversimplifying to say that this is a process that takes several days. Why is it not called jarring? The whole experience is, you know. First there’s this huge pot that is used to sterilize the jars (small beasts could be boiled in it… I start thinking Macbeth double, double toil and trouble; burner on high and canner bubble when I see it). Then there’s a whole process of boiling the apples to bits (literally… you put them in cores, seeds, peels and all). After boiling and stirring continually, the pulpy mess has to be pressed. Then it has to be bagged and dripped. The dripping process is stressful because NO ONE can touch the bag contraption that goes on the counter. It’s scary. And she’s right, she does need a new kitchen. I think the new shop should be hers. All hers. After bagging, the next step is measuring, spicing, cooking, and finally the pulp is ladled into sterilized jars. At the end of the day you still have to label the jars and (the nightmare of it all) wash the dishes.
So, taking account… the amount of labour and the end result… hours and hours of kitchen slave hours to create one tiny, tiny jar of apple butter. It IS delicious. It IS worth it. But I personally prefer not being here to participate in the process. So then I sigh. Apple butter is DONE! Hooray! Oh, just wait. We now have to make… apple jelly, apple crisp, apple pie, and later… apple fruit leather.
An apple a day is a good thing. Hundreds of apples in one day is… ridiculous but life on the farm nonetheless.
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