How Do You Like Them Apples?

My parents mercifully divorced when I was 12-years-old, which set off a chain of events that have shaped the person I am today. Without a doubt, I would be drunker, sluttier, and fatter if they were still together, so the divorce gave me a semi-shot at normalcy. I can never thank my mother enough for the courage it took to leave that marriage.

As my mother, brother and I attempted to salvage ourselves from the wreckage, we set out on the unenviable task of selling our house. This house was filled with a decade of memories: art projects loving saved, report cards archived and every toy placed in the basement. I fully admit that I am a slob, something my mother needles me endlessly about, but I know I inherited some of these tendencies from her. This woman saved every damn spelling test LittleBrother and I ever took; they filled boxes upon boxes, shelf after shelf. My mother held on to all of our baby teeth, which I unearthed when I was 10; only then would she admit that there was no such thing as the Tooth Fairy. Clearly, pack-rat-itis is a trait passed down from generation to generation.

When we finally put the house up for sale, of course the market was in the tank. It sat for months and months and desperation grew. My mother finally hired a big time real estate agent in hopes of unloading the burden of a house we could no longer make the mortgage on. The agent probably cost more than we could afford, but it was desperate times, and she was a pro. Regular open houses were finally taking place and a constant stream of strangers moved through.

Before one important open house, my mother threw together a simple applesauce in a crock pot in an attempt to fill the house with a smell other than wet dog. We busied ourselves for a few hours and returned to the house, which suspiciously lacked any apple scent. The real estate agent, an ample woman, had torn through a whole crock pot of applesauce. My mother was incensed, this being the final straw in a year full of indignities. The real estate agent finally sold the house, but from that day forward, my mother could not speak of her without mentioning this affront.

Like my mother, I never forget a transgression and I still think of this every time I make applesauce. In an attempt to force fall, I whipped up some rustic applesauce this weekend. You haven’t had applesauce until you have had it warm, straight from the stove top. It just feels so damn wholesome and American and tastes perfect. After the (fun and filled with great new people) DC Blogger Happy Hour, where I showed a whole new group that I put the “ass” in class, a dinner of porkchops and applesauce felt downright Puritanical. One of my favorite things about making applesauce is you are only limited by your imagination; it can be simple or ornate, sweet or potent. Below is what I threw together this time, but cloves would be great, as would adding some cranberries or orange.

It’s almost impossible to stop yourself from eating the whole pot.

Rustic Applesauce

A Lemmonex Original

5 fiji apples, peeled and diced into ½” cubes

½ cup water

Juice of ½ lemon

3 strips of lemon peel (use a vegetable peeler)

1 cinnamon stick

1 teaspoon nutmeg

1 pinch ground ginger

1 ½ Tablespoons white sugar

2 Tablespoons packed brown sugar

Throw all ingredients in a sauce pan and cook over medium-low heat for 1 hour, occasionally mashing with a fork or potato masher, but still leaving chunks of apple. Pluck out cinnamon stick and serve.

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