Apple Appeal
“What brought you to the Cape?”
This is a familiar question for many who call Cape Cod home. Only a fraction of us who live on Cape Cod actually grew up here, which means the rest of us are transplants—washashores. For my husband and me, the question is usually posed accompanied by a quizzical expression, because unlike many Cape Codders who hail from other regions of New England, Tim and I moved here from Phoenix, Arizona. We’ve been here since 2011 and have yet to meet any fellow desert rats.
One of the many things that drew us to the Cape is a quaint albeit slightly neglected house on two acres abutting conservation land in South Orleans. The house itself wasn’t much different from others we had seen during our previous Cape vacations, but the property was— is—something quite special. From the street, the yard is small and tidy. But behind the house, a previous owner created a virtual botanical paradise: grape vines, raspberry and blackberry patches, a cherry tree, a pear tree and two mature apple trees surrounded three quaint outbuildings. In the center of it all a picket fence enclosed a small vegetable garden where the remains of squash vines and asparagus mingled with wild roses and bittersweet.
When we bought the house, we committed ourselves to years of repair and remodel projects along with the challenge of taming an overgrown garden. We welcomed the opportunity to dig in. But despite our noblest efforts, the weeds won. We did our best with the abundance we inherited with our gray-shingled gem, but some of the plantings were so overgrown and obscured by bittersweet that they had to be removed, and the most recent winter storms felled the pear tree. Thankfully, the gnarly but abundant apple trees remain, near the house and in direct view from the master bedroom windows, their seasonal evolution celebrating the passage of our time here.
In May, the knotted and knuckled limbs are shrouded by green leaves and brightened by a blanket of pink and white blossoms, and by July, they strain under the influence of small, green fruit, clumped together in the face of the relentless summer sun. As August approaches, one of the larger limbs is so heavy that it bows to touch the flowerbeds below. I watch and wonder whether there’s something I should do. Is there some way to ease the strain of this prolonged labor? I remind myself to call an arborist.
I peruse photos from years past to guess when this year’s crop might drop. Mid-autumn is classic apple-picking season, but high winds of last September sent unripe fruit plummeting into the ferns and holly below, only to be ravaged by worms and bees before I could retrieve them. This year, I might rig up a net so as to maximize my catch. Processing multiple bushels full is a commitment, but the work is worth it; the apples are round and smooth, crisp and sweet with just a spark of tartness. I don’t know the species of my apple trees; this is another question for the arborist I have yet to find.
The not knowing doesn’t affect my autumn bounty though; we easily meet our apple-a-day quota, and the rest are transformed into apple butter and pie filling, which are steam-canned in glass jars, large and small. A six-ouncer pulled from the pantry makes a perfect last-minute hostess gift, but not a dent in the steady stream of apple butter that keeps summer visitors spoiled and happy.
