The house smelled of applesauce for days.
“Almost heaven, Pleasant Gap…” I’m singing in my best John Denver voice.
I’ve mentioned my neighbors Jack and Sonja. They not only fill me in on local history, but they’ve taken to perching in their chairs overlooking my raised-bed garden.
“There’s a big, green bell pepper ready for picking.” (“I’m waiting until it turns red, it’s called Scarlet Knight.”)
“Either you missed three beans high up on the vine or they grew huge overnight.” (“Well, they do grow quickly but I probably missed those.”)
“So, you dug up some potatoes already?” (“I was hungry for potato salad.”)
“We saw some white butterflies near your squash.” (“Hmmm.”)
In the meantime, I’ve shared lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, tried to share garlic but they don’t eat it, and neighborly life goes on.
Then, one day while taking Sandy for a walk, an octogenarian ambled toward me from his yard.
“Do you want some Lodi apples? They make great pies and applesauce. I’ve seen your garden when I visit Jack and Sonja.”
This was my formal introduction to Stellard, Sonja’s brother. He handed me a beautiful yellow-green apple that Sandy and I consumed on our walk.
“I’ll pick some more when it’s not so hot.”
The next day Stellard left a peck or more of Lodi apples at the side door, under the carport.
Then, the work began. Lodi apples are not good keepers, I read, so you won’t find them in a supermarket. The early season apples were developed about 100 years ago by the orchardists at the New York State Agricultural Experiment Station who crossed a Yellow Transparent with a Montgomery Sweet.
Temperatures that day reached the mid-90s, so all of the windows were closed and the AC turned on. My mom’s gifted handyman, Bobby, was at the house for the morning, attaching a second railing at the basement stairs, fixing a leak under the kitchen sink, and fiddling with the bathroom shower and vanity light.
So, as he fixed and I pared, cored, and sliced, we chatted and caught up. His third child is due next month. Besides building his wife a greenhouse, they also have goats, chickens, guineas, ducks, and soon, turkeys. Midway through the morning, a certain four-legged thief stuck his head in the bag of apples, grabbed one in his mouth, and ran into his “cave” under the bed. We followed him. Bobby dropped to the floor on both his good knees, pulled Sandy out and pried the apple from his mouth. There isn’t much Bobby can’t or won’t do.
Soon it was applesaucing time.
By then, Bobby was off to his next job and I was alone in the kitchen, almost afraid to turn on the flame for the gas stove on such a hot day, but I didn’t want the apples to spoil either.
I had prepared 25 apples and had the following recipe for applesauce:
1/2 peck (5 pounds) or about 16 Lodi apples
1/2 cup water
Pinch of salt
1/4 cup sugar, plus more to taste
I adjusted for the extra apples, which I placed in a large soup pot with a pinch of salt and 3/4 cup of water. This doesn’t seem like a lot of water, but it worked perfectly. I turned the heat to medium, and cooked the apples, stirring frequently with a long wooden spoon. As the apples softened, I kept stirring to keep them from sticking or scorching. After about 25 minutes I brought out the heavy-duty equipment: a metal masher. I pressed the larger slices into sauce, stirring the rest, and then mashed some more. I like lumpy applesauce, so I didn’t go crazy. Within 30 minutes from turning on the stove, I had a batch of applesauce. I turned off the flame, added ¼ cup of sugar and a little more, and let everything cool to room temperature. Then I ladled the applesauce into containers and packed them in the freezer.
The next day I still had Lodi apples left in the bag, so I made two Norwegian Apple Pies (a simple, no-crust recipe from my sister Lee Ann), one for Sandy and me, the other for Stellard and his wife. Laurie Lynch
Name Double, Almost: Stellard was named after his father, but Sonja is not sure where her father’s name came from. When I was a youngster, I found a telegram to my mom (from when she was pregnant with me) sent by her father. If the baby is a girl, he asked, please name her “Stella” (after my mother’s mother). Obviously, my mother did not take the suggestion, and Laura, it was. As a kid, I was always thankful. It seemed like such an old-fashioned name. But now, I kind of like it. Heck, it’s Latin for “star”. Stellard is certainly my Lodi Star.
Starry Night: The other night I was a ticket-taker at an Acoustic Brew concert. Van Wagner, a PA-raised environmentalist/teacher/singer-songwriter, was the featured performer at the Boal Mansion Museum’s outdoor amphitheater. He ended the evening with a sing-along, “Goodnight, Irene”, first sung by Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter and then The Weavers, and through the years, many others. It is a folk concert favorite and my mother and I often sang it to each other.
If you’re not familiar with the refrain: “Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight. Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene. I’ll see you in my dreams.”
Guess who made a guest appearance in my dreams later that night? Not Irene—Marie.
Fleur-de-Blog 