Few things are more therapeutic and relaxing than reaching through the heavy laden branches of an old apple tree, and harvesting autumn apples.
Malus Domestica
Regenesis, by George Monbiot, pg 1
The single species, too good to be true, has been bred into thousands of different forms: dessert apples, cooking apples, cider apples, drying apples, in an astonishing range of sizes, shapes, colours, scents and flavours. We grow Miller’s Seedling, which ripens in August and must be eaten from the tree, as the slightest jolt in transit bruises its translucent skin. It is sweet and soft, more juice than flesh. By contrast, the Wyken Pippen, hard as wood when picked, is scarcely edible till January, then stays crisp until the following May. We grow St Edmund’s Pippin which has skin like sandpaper and is dry and nutty and aromatic for two weeks in September, after which it turns to fluff, and the Golden Russet, whose taste and texture are almost identical, but only in February. The Ashmead’s Kernel, crunchy, with a hint of carraway, my favourite apple, peaks in midwinter. The Reverend W. Wilks puffs up like wool when you bake it, and tastes like a smooth white wine. The Catshead, roasted at Christmas, is almost indistinguishable from mango puree. Ribston Pippin, Mannington’s Pearmain, Kingston Black, Cottenham Seedling, D’Arcy Spice, Belle de Boskoop, Ellis Bitter: these fruit are capsules of time and place, culture and nature.
