I grew up in southern California, where avocados were abundant and much of my youth was spent swinging from citrus trees. Apples, when one encountered them, came in three varieties: if you were lucky it would be Fuji (way back in the day it was Macintosh – remember when those were actually apples and not computers??), then second best was Granny Smith, and the last and the least was a Red Delicious. I can say that in all my life, I’ve never had even one that came close to approximating “delicious”ness. Not even that one time in that orchard in for-reals Massachusetts. Nope.
I remember the first year I moved to the pacific northwest. My co-workers began their chatter weeks in advance, and I’d overhear excited snippets of conversation: “. . . coming up on apple season . . .“, or “. . . can’t wait to go apple tasting . . .”
“What the?!“, I thought. I rolled my eyes. And I chuffed! “Apples, psh.”
You can see where I’m going to make this long story short. That fall I sampled my very first Honeycrisp, and from there it was GAME. OVER. I was an apple convert – nay – an apple evangelical!
Pumpkin is nice and all. Butternuts and acorns and all that jazz. Sure.
I love that you can really predict an apple’s flavor, just by the way it looks. A gargantuan golden specimen won’t be tart, while an under-sized rose-colored sort certainly can’t be bland. All the apples I favor look very similar, a calico of shiny green and bursts of blush; a Honeycrisp, a Braeburn, or a pretty Pink Lady.
Very Important Question:
What is your favorite type of apple?