Making Apple Sauce

 

Push up your sleeves—yes, both—this could be messy.

Let’s fill the sink with sudsy water to scrub

the wax away. My mother (your great-grandma)

swore that the only apples fit to use

were McIntosh, the crisp ones from the farm.

Each fall, she’d buy a bushel, cook and jar them.

She’d freeze more than a dozen quarts, enough

to last us till the spring when she’d return

from Florida. We smiled each time that we

defrosted one. (She left us all winter long—

I could have used her help, but she was young

and liked to play.)

                                    I’ll cut them into quarters—

you drop them in the pot. We leave the skins on;

they give the sauce a rosy color.  Add some

water—not much. A low flame…now we wait.

 

The apples are soft—let’s add the sugar and lemon.

Close your eyes whenever you squeeze a lemon—

my mother said that it prevented tears.

Five minutes more and then we’ll let it cool….

 

Let’s put this big bowl in the sink, and next

that metal sieve; it’s called a China Cap

because it’s shaped like a Chinese hat. I’ll find

a picture for you later on the Net.

It’s very old. How old? Oh, seventy years

at least.  Can you count up to seventy

by tens? Good work. Let’s push these metal legs 

into the collar holes. See how the sieve  

sits in the collar above the bowl.  We’re ready.

 

Use this big spoon and slide the apples into

the sieve. Now take that wooden cone and press.

Leave the pointy end in the sieve—make circles,

like this (I still can feel her hand on mine).

 

We’re almost finished; here’s the cinnamon.

We’ll leave half plain—then everyone can choose.

I’ll bet that we have almost seven quarts—

you take three home today; I’ll freeze the rest.

(I see her scraping apple sauce off her apron.)

What did I say? Oh, nothing. Excellent job.

After you wash your hands, we’ll call your mother.