Apple Season

We recognized the man in measuring-tape suspenders the moment we saw him. The organic apple man! "Our baby hasn't had applesauce yet, we were waiting for your appearance," we told him as we measured out a few pounds of his apples. Many vendors at the farmer's market print "chemical-free, pesticide-free" on their signs. Since they haven't gone through the extensive, and expensive, process of being certified organic, they don't claim the title. Organic apple man doesn't care. "Organic apples, .50/lb" is hand-scrawled on his dry erase board.

We like his style. Unlike most vendors, eager to sell, he sits with his back to his buckets of apples, like a teenager embarrassed to be out in public with his mother. That first week, he merely looks over his shoulder at us, interrupting his conversation with a few young men playing with cell phones for just enough time to accept our payment. "They'll get sweeter in coming weeks," he tells us, then returns to helping his young friends choose ring tones. "We're glad you're here," we told him with a smile- our refrain for all vendors who don't spray their produce.

I was excited to make baby food, remembering how applesauce was the first thing Zephyr really enjoyed eating. But organic apple man was right; these apples were far from sweet. They didn't impress Jubilee, and when I tasted it, I could see why. None went to waste, however. We still ate them, enjoying their crisp, local, organic-ness, even if their flavor was a little lacking. I used some of the applesauce to make zucchini bread.

The following week, after spotting the apples, we had to search a bit for the man. He was over with the hotdog vendor, completely disassociated from his wares. I suppose we could have dropped our payment in the jar next to the buckets, but putting it in his hand felt more honest. We made eye contact and he came over. "That's two kilos, not two pounds," he pointed out on the scale. After dropping the apples in our bag, he grabbed 4 extras and stuffed them in. The apples were a little bigger this week, and a little tastier. We made apple bread. Zephyr ate three wedged apples in one sitting. Jubilee enjoyed gnawing on apples that we ate the skin off. Jon, more often than not, grabbed one from the bowl on his way to work, something to tide him over until lunch.

Two weeks ago, as we made our purchase (this time we found him at a nearby hand-sewn crafts table), he looked at us and said, "you are earth people. They used to call people like you hippies." Fair enough. It didn't seem like an insult, but it also didn't seem like he was saying, "and I am, too." Later I wondered- how did he peg us as such? Was it the tie-dye? The fact that I carry Jubilee in a sling? Zephyr's haircut? Had he seen me breast-feed? The fact that we're so appreciative of his less-than-picture-perfect apples? No matter. We like the label, and the spirit in which it was given.

Last week the apples were about twice the size they started, and the color had matured to include some pink within the green. We measured out a few pounds and got out Jon's wallet. "I'm giving them away today," he told us. "Want a bucket?" I protested, but cut myself short. Generosity is a gift to both the recipient and the benefactor. We thanked him profusely as we loaded up our market bag. "The other two earth families are here today, too," he said, looking into the distance. We wondered if we knew them; what characteristics did we share that caused organic apple man to lump us into the same group?

That afternoon, I processed those apples into two quarts of applesauce and almost as much apple butter. We had borrowed canning equipment for making spaghetti sauce the day before, so the timing was perfect. I could hardly sleep that night, excited about eating apple butter on toast in the morning, and giddy with the thought of future canning opportunities. I developed a feeling of pride seeing those colorful jars on the pantry shelf- stores of local, organic foods that would last us until next year. It may sound silly; after all, applesauce and tomato sauce are available year round at the supermarket. But I always fretted about throwing away those jars, since recycling is not available here. And it just felt good, knowing the faces of the individuals who had grown the products for our future feasts.

Yesterday, we sought out organic apple man and pressed a pint of apple butter into his hands. He hugged it. He popped off the lid, inhaled deeply, and sighed appreciatively "No one knows how to make apple butter anymore!" We came prepared to buy, but he immediately offered us both his buckets of apples- all sixty pounds worth. "What about your other customers?" I asked. "First come, first served," he replied. Jon carried the buckets to the car, and while we waited for him to return the buckets, we made small talk. I found out that organic apple man has lived here for 20 years, ever since retiring from the Navy. He talked about growing up on a farm in North Dakota. All year they ate only what they had grown. For dinner, he would head down to the cellar, grab cans of meat and beans, take carrots and potatoes out of bins, and put it all in the crock pot. He bemoaned the fact that kids don't know where food comes from these days. He used to raise poultry; the turkeys became fiercely protective of the chickens when hawks tried to attack. "This might be the last week for apples," he told us. Jon held out his right hand, " We really appreciate them. I'm Jon." "Monroe," replied our seasonal acquaintance. I made a last effort to reimburse him at least the paltry vendor fee that I knew he had to pay to be there that day. He shook his head, waved me away. "I'm going to sell my bench," he said, indicating a beautiful wooden bench we had never noticed before.

Don't tell Monroe, but next week I'm bringing him an apple pie.