My time of year
This is my time of year. At last the fallen apples aren’t too bitter. Obviously, I did still eat them when they were bitter, but now it’s worth me spending a longer time outside. I’ve just got to work out what to do about Mum. This is the point in the year where we have different opinions. I see our orchard as an eat as much as I like buffet. Mum seems to think that any additional apples should be part of a calorie controlled diet.
I’m old. I don’t want to control my calories. Eating is one of the pleasures I still have in life. Where we fall out is that Mum worries that my back and my arthritis are under much more risk if I put weight on. She wants me to live forever and remain active. Now, I do see some of her logic, but I don’t want to live forever by sitting quietly and doing nothing. If eating makes me happy, I’d rather have a slightly shorter life with more food.
Battling the humans
Mum’s approach is to spend time raking up the apples and putting them on top of the compost. She argues that other wildlife might like to share them and it stops me having too many. My aunt has been gathering them up to turn into pies. For the record, I’d be happy to eat pies.
Dad is waiting for the apples to be properly ripe. He will then take them to turn into stewed apple or cider. Mum is hoping he’s going to start making cider, even though she doesn’t drink it. I wonder if he’ll let me try some when he’s made it. We used to think Aristotle chose the rotten apples deliberately for their alcohol content, but I just like apple.
Love and licks
Wilma
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