I hope in years to come when the husband reminisces on the early years of our love, that he remembers his summer wife. I often tell him during those months to savor things and create a mental picture because I am my best in the summer. My hair is curlier and wild, I can't stay out of the ocean, I want to venture everywhere, and most importantly, I'm not a moody, light-deprived maniac.
And I know all you fall-lovers out there are going to remind me about pumpkin flavored things, apple-picking, cider donuts, scarves and scented candles. To which I say: yes, I already know about those things because they are the only things that keep me from weeping in my pajamas while listening to Joni Mitchell twenty four hours a day- well, that and the mound of crap I have to do. But thank you nonetheless. Feel free to keep your annoying fall joy confined to the internet. This is what keeps pinterest chock full of slow cooker recipes after all.
I'm going to pick a bone with apple-picking this year though. Basically, apple-picking day is like the New England hipster National holiday. You can put on your scarves, boots, and hats pretend you live in 19th century Massachusetts for a day, or with Instagram filters, 1970's New Hampshire. (We surely do romanticize this era of our parents' youth more than any other.)
I'll admit it. I've gone apple-picking and shamelessly shared my photos on Instagram and Facebook myself. There is nothing quite like a filtered photo of apples so glistening they look like part of the set of The Wizard of Oz, and if you can get the sun to glint ever so slightly, it will set the hearts of your 600 or so hipster Facebook friends a aflame with nostalgia and envy.
This year, B and I are basically booked every weekend from now until Christmas, so we snagged just a few hours to go apple-picking last week. This truly is a Massachusetts thing. Growing up in Connecticut, we would sometimes go pumpkin-picking, and there was a great "Haunted Hayride" nearby, but I never used to feel this annual compulsion for heading to the nearest apple farm. Turns out, the nearest farm that we could get to with just three hours to spare this year, has become a bit of a tourist-trap circus. We paid $38 for admission and a very small, tiny really, bag to fill with apples. Then we had to board a miniature train with a gaggle of screaming toddlers and were dropped off in the middle of a field, and since none of the signs were visible from the train, we found ourselves surrounded by nothing but a bunch of Asian pears. But no matter, it was a beautiful, unseasonably warm day. After wandering around for a while longer and filling our bag to a satisfactory level of actual apples, we decided to hit the store to look for cider donuts, which is surely the only other tangible reason people go apple-picking. I mean, hello? I can get apples in Stop & Shop. But there is nothing quite like a freshly baked, warm apple cider donut.
And then this happened:
That's right, nearly 40 bones later and not an apple cider donut to show for it. Fall, you are going to have to try a little harder to convert me to your fan base next year.