By 2PM yesterday, I felt like the day had been completely wasted folding laundry and was about to be further wasted on mundane errands refilling the sock supply (because nothing is better than teenage feet for wearing holes in knitted material).
I was in the checkout line with the replacement socks when my Family Guy ‘Mom, Mom, Mommy, MOOMM’ ring tone went off. I knew it was home. But instead of adding another item to my list, the crew had called to rush me home so we could take a few buckets of freshly picked apples to a neighbor’s for pressing.
The owner of a foot that is as reliable as Pinto with a blinking left-turn signal, I knew I would be there mostly as an observer. We have more apples than we know what to do with this year,however, so I rushed and then we rushed our 30 gallons of apples to the other side of our no-traffic light town, and by the time the sun had gone down, our neighbor had helped the Big Guy and the boys press 2 gallons of the apple-iest cider we’ve ever tasted (it may have been more, but, as with berry picking, some of the harvest gets consumed as it’s processed).
Our host and hostess served each of us a bowl of butternut soup, and we headed home in the dark with the certainty that there are few better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon.