The Honeycrisp

Due to a recent slew of visitors (after which I said not-so-jokingly to the husband: "let's stop making friends and start making babies so we can tell everyone they can't stay with us anymore"), I never got the chance to go out of the city on an apple picking excursion. Not that I have ever been "apple picking" - where I come from, I can't ever remember someone saying "let's go apple picking" like they do in this city. Still, if I had, I can tell you the first thing I would've asked the owner of the apple orchard*: "Can you please point me towards your Honeycrisp section?" And I would strip the trees bare to fill my basket. Or bushel. Or apron held outspread.

I have a confession: I'm addicted to Honeycrisp apples. Sweet, juicy, crispy (as the name would suggest) - the Honeycrisp is by far the most perfect of all the apples. It was even called "the iPod of apples" by the New York Times. And if by that they mean that it's the one apple that no one seems to be able to do without, the apple that everyone says "changed my life," then I would be compelled to agree.

Because the Honeycrisp has ruined me for other apples. Down the street on a Sunday, I scour the farmer's market for the last of them (as I'm always one to arrive late to a farmer's market) bruised or not. I tried the Gala, the Ida Red, even the Jonagold, but nothing would do. Honeycrisp or bust.

This happened to me last winter with the Cara Cara navel orange: I ate so many of them that I reignited my chronic heartburn and couldn't eat any more citrus for the rest of the season. Thankfully, apples aren't as acidic. Or as expensive.

But what does it mean when I'm tempted to close my office door just to be alone with my Honeycrisp? It's getting to be a problem. I'm just worried about what will happen when the season ends...

*I always picture apple orchard owners as old drawings of Johnny Appleseed, that great Apple Evangelist.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.