Apples and the Man

It makes perfect sense that I should adore apples, my last name being McIntosh. As a child, I allowed myself to imagine we were related to the Canadian man, John McIntosh, who grafted this (once) fine apple into existence. But I also love the story that it was an apple that encouraged man and woman to embrace the desire to unite their own firm and sweet flesh. Not sure what fruit encouraged two men to press the flesh, or two women, probably an apple, just a different variety.

In my village in Burgundy, there is a Farmer’s market every Saturday morning. One can hardly wait for the moment the stalls are open for custom. I have become familiar with all of the purveyors, but there is a man who sells a grand variety of apples, plus a few other seasonal fruits, and he has become my Saturday morning flirtation. And I look forward to this moment, every Saturday. For years now, I stand in queue and when my turn to purchase arrives, I stand before Monsieur Pomme, sputtering away, my feeble attempt to communicate in French. Monsieur Pomme does the same with English. We always laugh at whatever the other says, and everyone in queue laughs too. Trouble is, they understand him, but not moi! Who knows what pleasure the queue has derived at my expense; it matters not, the laughter is delightful. I have begun to understand that he wants me to enjoy each apple in its suitable culinary character. This apple for compote, another for gateau, some best for the raw pleasure, and others for a savoury preparation. Those apple books in the library will assist moi, and when I can truly parle en Francais, won’t Monsieur Pomme be impressed!

This past year, I have planted two espalier apple trees and two espalier pear trees upon the great wall in my garden. At this point, the apple man need not be concerned with my annual harvest. I believe in an apple a day, and it will most likely be a long time before my trees are able to grow enough to quench my appetite.

~Madame McIntosh

Autumn 2019