Joan Leotta

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE APPLE?

Each autumn my husband, Joe, and I and our young children, Jennie and Joey trekked ten hours to see his parents, being dazzled by the leaf display of upstate New York and picking apples, one of his favorite childhood memories. As soon as we could steady our toddlers on a ladder, we introduced them to the joy of pulling shiny red apples from branches. On the drive north, Joe always delighted in regaling them with talk of the vast variety of apples grown in his home state and that his favorite, the Macintosh, was best, freshly picked from upstate orchards. For many years we all climbed ladders and filled at least one bushel basket of one or two varieties at  Campbell’s Orchard, just a few miles from Joe’s childhood home.

Campbells specialized in Joe’s favorite, the Mcintosh, and also cultivated a few rows of Cortlands and Macouns, two that were favorites of others in the family. Mr. Campbell welcomed and checked out all comers from a table (sporting register and scales) at the door to the barn where the ladders were kept. A few years into the picking, while waiting to pay, I heard him tell the man in front of me that there was only one tree left bearing “Number Ten” fruit.

As he weighed our apples, I asked. “Is number ten a new kind of apple?”

His wizened face crinkled into a large smile. “When I bought this old orchard fifty years ago, there were three “Number Ten” trees growing. People loved them, but we could never establish new ones in that variety. That big specimen by the barn is the only one left.”

“How do they taste?” 

“Notes of vanilla, crisp, not hard. I picked the rest of the number tens this morning. Try one” 

He pulled an apple from a crate under the register and handed it to me. I did and was hooked.

For the following few years, I looked forward to bringing home at least one bag, maybe a dozen of those rare number tens.

However, just about when I had it down pat as to when the number tens would be available, my mother -in-law told me that the last tree had come down in a storm. No more number tens. And soon after,  I learned there would be no trips to Campbel’s Orchard for us.

Joe’s parents moved to Syracuse, and we began to pick at a large Syracuse area orchard. Lots of varieties—nice big apples, no more ladders. Their barn was full of apples picked each morning. 

We brought home Macintosh, Macoun’s, Cortland’s and even tried new-to-us varieties like Pink Ladies and Empires year after year until the children were out of high school Yet, to my mind, none of the other apples match those number tens. They took on a special flavor in my memory, that no other apple could match. Even now, I  sometimes think about that “other” apple whose glossy skin covered crisp flesh, a hint of flavor of vanilla and tantalizing notes from  other apples as well. I wonder sometimes if my memory is tricking me and my tastebuds only dreamt of savoring the multiplicity of flavors  in one piece of fruit, having never before or since ever encountered another apple like it. 

In recent years, supermarkets have begun to bring more varieties to their bins. Red delicious and Granny Smith now sit side by side with Fiji, Gala, Pink Lady, and even Macs  from New York State. When we lived in North Carolina, I tried an Arkansas Black, a mountain apple that is so dark it is almost black—tart, lovely, reminded me of Number ten but not quite the same.

Last week I was going through some of our old photos and as I lingered over the photos of our children as toddlers, their Dad holding the ladder as they reached up to pull down apples, my husband leaned over and asked, “ Hmm, so many apples. After all this time, I still like Macs the best. What is your favorite these days? Or is that old number ten still the apple of your eye.” I groaned at the play on the old saying. 

Then I looked up at him and back at the pictures. Yes, number tens were tasty, but my favorite part of apple time, even then, was time together, laughing, sharing apples with Joe’s parents, and bringing them home to Virginia. Number tens are gone for good, and now I have no particular apple allegiance, going between Gala and Fiji and even a Mac or two. But the love and joy of family have neither disappeared nor been diminished by the passage of time. The true gem of apple picking was not any one kind of apple—it was the fun we four enjoyed.  Those number tens were exceptionally good.

I replied, “I guess any apple we buy together, and share is good and my favorite, well, my favorite apple is not the fruit itself, but our experiences picking them.” 

Bio:
Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. A multiple Pushcart and Best of Net nominee, her poetry, essays, stories have appeared in the US and abroad, including in OVUNQUE SIAMO. On stage, she performs folktale programs; offers a one-woman show “Louisa May Alcott, Author and Nurse”