Just as my nose thrills in inhaling the aromas of a wine, it can't get enough of the nuances of the beginning of a season, the shift from the last one. Especially Fall. Leaves, the first tinge of woodsmoke in the neighborhood, cold air mixed with warm sun even has a scent though I don't think I can adequately describe it. And apples. Crates of fresh picked apples smell amazing. And we haven't even gotten to the baking them into pie smell yet. The first find of roadside apples takes me right back to Sunday mornings as a kid at the apple stand out at the far north stretches of Chestnut street out at the West End. By the end of the excursion, we had tasted apples and brought bags of them home. It was always sunny, with sounds of rustling leaves from an always present October wind and cars parking on the gravel lot near the trees. Car doors slamming, kids running, it was an event. I don't remember it ever raining on the day we got to go get apples. I don't recall smelling apples as a kid but I do remember the smell of the sunporch all week after that Sunday and its bags of fresh picked Macouns, Yellow Delicious and Macintosh.
It's time for apples.
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