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You brought apples back from the abandoned orchard. Two big bags
full, replete with dusty smudges and still-clinging leaves. Lucky
for us, you said as you blotted the condensed breath from your
glasses and beard, the first frost had come early this year,
before you left, so the apples were perfect. We could make
applesauce. Or better still, some of my famous chutney. The
blemishes and worm holes wouldn't matter (hey, this stuff was
organic); we could just cut around them.
And so you stepped over and around your worldly possessions,
boxed and stacked in the corners ready for the move, and tumbled
the contents of your bags gently into the bathtub and proceeded
to spray them down with our — now my — hand held shower. We were
low on honey, so I had to run to the store to get some. And by
the time I returned, you had everything ready: mason jars hauled
down from their high shelf, stove and table cleared, kettles and
pans and tubs ready for boiling and for receiving cores and
trimmings bound for the compost.
As we settled in with paring knives for the first batch, you
asked how big the apple chunks should be. But before I could
answer, the rhythm of slicing had already established itself, and
I simply said that's fine and watched your bigger pieces marry
with my smaller ones in a growing heap in the saucepan. But his
will take longer to cook, I thought, a touch petulantly but
really knowing well that they'd be the ones to survive the heat
of canning with some crunch and integrity left.
We worked on, mostly in silence — a good silence again, after so
much bad. No need after all these years for small talk. Two pairs
of efficient hands, knowing their jobs, making the wholesome,
exotic relish out of unwanted autumn fruit. This, I thought, is
what I'll remember when the need to remember comes upon me.
Kitchen intimacy. The lid rattling on the stock pot, the crisp
shooshing of a knife in tart fruit. The contented smile you
always wore when you had saved something precious from the modern
waste heap.
In the end we had seven pints, plus a little to spread on toast
right away. And we complained as we always did at the unfair
shrinkage of summer's bounty. But we were both happier than we
had been in weeks as we looked at the seven gleaming jars lined
up on the stove top, displaying their beautiful, ugly contents.
And as the evening wore on through cups of Earl Grey and a last
game of Scrabble, I counted — and knew you did too — seven sharp
pings as the jars sealed, singing out our success.
The next morning you made room in your bags for three jars and
refused the fourth I held out to you. I had done all the work,
you claimed, as you always did. Nonsense, I said, and besides
they were your apples. But you refused it, as I knew you would,
so in the end I slipped it, as you must have known I would, into
one of the boxes that I helped load into your van. I could not
stand in the driveway, bravely waving like the abandoned wife in
a made-for-TV movie. So after our quick hug and one more promise
to write soon and often, I went in and put my three cool jars up
on a shelf, repeating over and over to myself what we both knew
to be the truth: it was for the best. And it was for the best.
Even though it was the easiest, mildest winter in years, the
store-bought apples taste like they always do in spring — not
quite perfectly crisp, a little too sweet. So tonight I opened my
last jar of chutney to taste the spiced perfection of autumn
fruit. I know that you can't resist chutney, that your four jars
wouldn't have lasted a month. Still, I smiled to myself at a
picture of you, in your stone village in Vermont, opening your
last jar at the very moment I opened mine, smelling a kitchen a
thousand miles away.
This was among my best chutney ever, didn't you think? Just the
right amount of ginger and spice. The small bits of fruit had
disintegrated into a sweet, thick paste, just right to hold the
tart surprise of the larger pieces.
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