Apples 'in' the eyes

Apple season is special to me. Because there’s nothing like the smell of fresh apples simmering in a pot to be applesauce, especially the apples that get the cinnamon. The fall aroma wafts through the house filling it so full, that it must squeak out the kitchen door. The comforting scent flows out to greet me when I come in from doing chores.

I breathe in deep, ahhh heaven.

My pantry looks complete with all that golden, tan luscious freshness tucked away in Ball and Kerr Canning jars, amongst the summers reds, greens and yellows. I know it will taste marvelous on a 0 degree winter day, warmed. So I am not complaining about the abundance of beautiful apples, because next year I will want more, but it is November and apple season is over.

I’ve canned 30 pints of applesauce, made pies and put them in the freezer ready to bake. I’ve canned apples in light syrup, apples in heavy, and there is apple crisp in the oven. There are so many apples I have apples on the brain and apples ‘in’ my eyes. I even ordered a Country Apple Tea Set for Herbs & Things. Enough is enough

I’m trying to do dishes. But I can feel them leering at me from across the kitchen. Their stare pricks at the back of my neck. They look harmless enough sitting on my kitchen chair, but they are not. They are relentless in their quest. They are— more apples tucked neatly in a wicker basket, throwing Apple dagger looks as soon as I look at them.

I close my eyes, figuring it’s my imagination and tap my heels and recite out loud, I want no more apples, I want no more apples. First, I open the left eye a slit, then the right. Are they still leering? Yes, and they are bigger, redder and bolder in their wanting something done. They are yelling for me to do something, anything, before they go bad. But What? I rub my temples, to relieve my weary apple dumpling frenzy. I grab up the basket and start peeling.

My mind working as I peel. If I can’t think of something different I will can these too for apple crisp and pies to bake and worry about where to put the new canned jars of apples later.

Peel, Peel, the mind is working; the mind is working Peel Peel. Cider, Sweet cider, I have sweet cider in the frig…ahhhhh blink…an idea, APPLE BUTTER.
Peel Peel faster faster I have a goal.

I cook and stir —cook and stir, cook and stir— cook and stir.
Spoon, turn the mill, spoon, turn the mill, put it all back in the pot, cook and stir, cook at stir, add cinnamon and nutmeg…ahhhhh smells good.
Cook and stir, cook and stir. Don’t want it to burn.
Cook and Stir. I fill the water bath canner, cook and stir. The water boils.
I fill canning jars with hot steaming cinnamon and nutmeg pulped apples. It is nice and thick. Twist and tighten lids. Put the jars in their hot water bath. Wait ten minutes for the timer to go off.
Ding.
I take them out. One by one…pop, pop, the lids seal. The brown inside the jars is an inviting, soft, mouthwatering brown.
The apples are finally content, they are Apple Butter, until morning that is.

Barn chores are done, the dogs and have romped and played, it’s time for toast and coffee. Hmmmmmm what do I want on my toast—something sweet, something tasty, No, not jelly, no—not peanut butter.

I hear a whisper from behind…yoo-hoo…oh…yoo-hoo, I am waiting for you to try me. No I can’t I just canned you yesterday.
No really— you WANT to try me.
Ok
Snap, hiss, the sealed lid gives way, and the delightful aroma says hello to my waiting senses.
Spread, Spread…bite….chew…bite…ohhhhhhh….I did good… I did YUMMY-licious…GOOD.

Snow Flake Miracles

I’m somewhat of a skeptic. Not about my beliefs, whether formed by faith or through actual experiences, but skeptic of what others ‘really’ believe or pretend to believe.
So when I started reading ‘The Shack’ by William P. Young, my skepticism kicked into high gear. I wasn’t sure, if I liked the book, or if I would finish reading it. Yet I continued to read on, curious about what was going to happen next.

With each page moving me to another chapter then another, I wondered at first, why this book is a top seller. I scolded myself, for continuing to read it, because ‘its way to hokey even for me’.

I know a writer's job is to keep the reader in motion. This book did that by making me wonder where it was taking me. It took me deeper into McKenzie’s Great Sadness, forcing me get to know him personally. By doing this, I could feel McKenzie’s pain.

My skepticism turned to worry. Will he go? What will happen to him when he gets there? Why is he going alone? What does he think he’ll find? With each step and mile towards his certain death, my heart ached for McKenzie because his ‘Great Sadness’ was making him to do a foolish thing. It was then I realized I was hoping for a miracle. I wanted to believe the unbelievable.

You are probably asking, what and where am I talking about. Sorry I can’t tell you, you have to read the book. I can tell you this, what does happen is something only seen in movies or in someone’s dreams. I found myself analyzing about any one of us and our lives. Are our lives merely a dream of reality or is our reality within our dreams.

When I turned the last page, those initial feelings of I can’t believe I’m reading this stuff were gone and I felt hope. Hope in, if we learn to forgive not only others but ourselves, in this hectic world of today where patience is minimal, and road rage is on the rise, our own sorrows would be less. To learn to see, amidst a growing de-sensitivity towards the earth and others, the miracles that surround us. The miracles of what this earthly world offers us—the big miracles in the ‘simple’ every day things.

Such as the miracle, any one can see on a spring day, when a delicate flower is strong enough and has broken through frozen ground. When tiny birds we consider fragile, survive what Mother Nature throws at them, and return after a long migration flight, to serenade us with their song of life. The miracle that’s free for us to witness, on a snowy winter day, when one snowflake gathering with others makes a blanket of white, covering miles, allowing us to see, the power of —one—at— a— time.

Do I believe what happened in ‘The Shack’ happened for real? I’m not sure.
But for me, it is a nice thought, that even if a life changing event happens in a dream, and we emerge with a new perspective about life, doesn’t that somehow make it real?