Tag Archives: Pink Lady

Two Hundred Days of Sun

WILLIAM’S BULLETIN

William is our newest farmhand, apprenticing in all things apples. He’ll be adding his thoughts, observations, and reports to this blog as he learns more. Stay tuned!

“OK, so the first question is, can you drive a manual transmission?” I didn’t say yes, but I knew not to say no. We were busy. The grading line was chugging away, dripping and steaming and rattling like any good piece of a-little-too-old-but-it-still-works machinery should. Down a few key hands, those on board were scrambling. Not much talking in the barn that day. Our on-line gift box store was on the verge of opening its e-doors, QuickBooks was growling, hungry for a teetering stack of invoices, and the Pink Lady bin out front was empty.

One thing about a farm is, you can predict everything and you can predict nothing. Pink Ladies, like most apples, are not like most apples. That is, what makes a Pink Lady a Pink Lady, and nothing else, is a specifically engineered set of characteristics, from the sugar-to-tannin balance (prickly, sharply sweet) to the color (a faint green field flushed ruddy red like windburned cheeks). The name is trademarked. When you get a Pink Lady, you know what you’re getting.

When you plant a Pink Lady, you follow the rules: trellis the trees so the branches catch more sun, and wait for the extra-long growing period. First to bloom and last to ripen, Pink Ladies take 200 days of good light. Northern Ohio gets as many clear-sky days as Austin — Pinks grow well here.

And so, under a deep clear blue November sky, I jumped into the pickup truck to get some. “Be sure to sample, so you know you’re picking the good ones,” Ben said, as I revved away in first gear.

Driving through corn country as a kid, I’d watch the rows rattle past the window: staring straight ahead, a blur; tracking them as they moved past, combed fields like record grooves in the earth. A dream, to walk through that biological Midtown of green walls. And now here I was, driving through the rows of trees, afraid to shift gears (no, I didn’t know how to drive manual — but I do now), mirrors slapping branches, bugs chirping their last before the winter hits, trees framing the sky, drowning in apples. The truck stalled, the world quieted, and I picked: twist and lift and place, gently, in my bag, then — gently — in a crate, then — gently — in the truck bed.

“We’ll get ‘em logged, graded, and boxed,” Ben said when I thudded to a stop back at the barn. Two hundred days of slowly soaking in the sun, blushing red, red, redder and then, one unpredictable afternoon, a thumping truck ride, a roll down an ancient conveyor, a grade, a name, and out the door. Time moves slow on an orchard, except when it doesn’t. The life of an apple changes fast. I’m just along for the bumpy ride.

Low Temps, High Harvest

WILLIAM’S BULLETIN

William is our newest farmhand, apprenticing in all things apples. He’ll be adding his thoughts, observations, and reports to this blog as he learns more. Stay tuned!

My first job was inspecting Winesaps. A guy called in to ask about them, about Winesaps specifically. Said he was driving in from Cleveland; said he wanted a peck; said his name was Bob Morris. “Name’s Bob Morris.” Only diehards give their full names. Only diehards ask about Winesaps, about if there were any russeting on them, and drive an hour each way to get them. These were my people.

By the time Bob Morris arrived, my toes had long gone numb, I was on my second coffee, third sweatshirt, fifth cider. It was cold. Downed apples burst into frosty fireworks when I kicked them. Satisfying, if worrisome not to feel it. The women wore pink or purple Carhartt overalls, matching hats; guys in camo, plaid, or both. Note to self: buy some insulated bibs. Underdressed and un-color-coordinated, I hunkered over cup after paper cup of cider at the pick-your-own signup table, passing out bags to the brave, bunched-together families who shivered up and out toward the nearest rows, back in ten or fifteen, bags full of Fujis, teetering to their cars. Most pawed through the bins out front, apples cool from the storage barn getting colder in the open air. “We’re getting a mix,” one told me. “I didn’t love the Suncrisp. I’ll give that one to mom.” I don’t blame her. Mutsus are better. “That’s the biggest apple I’ve ever seen!” said a kid, red-cheeked as a Jonathan back from a tractor ride with farmer Ben. It was a Melrose, Ohio’s state apple, and it’s true — you could carve that sucker like a pumpkin. A wet summer made bigger fruit. One would make a meal. Two would fill a pie. They’re good: Aromatic, nice cookers, great with roast chicken.

Apples in reds and golds and greens and yellows and striped and speckled all over. Bin after bin. This was peak harvest — only a few left on the trees, late-bloomers like Pink Ladys, the rubies of November. The rest were here, piled in the Market Barn. Our quirky Goldens blushed with red; Crimson Crisps, dark and shiny like wet fall leaves, Ben’s favorite, kind of spicy; Mutsus zesty, bright lime-fresh. “But they’re ornery. Ornery,” Ben says. They fall early, bruise.

Bob Morris got his peck. Parents filled and refilled cider mugs from the hot pot by the fritters as kiddos played with Walter and Hudson, the barn golden retrievers. The sun swung lower; air still cold. The crowds thinned, the sky decomposed into clumped knots of clouds, and I took a break to wander the empty rows, boot prints rough in frozen mud. Fujis, picked clean (crowdpleasers), Mutsus on the ground (ornery), Pink Ladys just coming ripe, bending the trees. Peach trees with their long cateye leaves green and stiff. Then way back toward the end of B Field, rows of trial trees. The Midwest Apple Improvement Guild sends us code-named samples of what they’re working on, trial trees we can grow and taste and test. I picked one at random and bit in as I walked back alone and quiet. Hard, thick red skin like an Arkansas black, pink streaked flesh, a creamy, middle range sweetness like a marshmallow, blooming into cinnamon. Give it a few decades and I’ll be calling the farm myself to ask for it. Name’s William Bostwick, I’d say. I want a peck.