On a Day Like Today
On a day like today --
a cool, overcast and damp fall day
my father would have been standing
alongside my mother
at the kitchen counter,
newspaper pages open and laid out,
paring knives handy,
a pot ready to be filled,
baskets of red juicy apples, handpicked, washed and waiting to be undressed.
Classical music would have played in the background –
Chopin always welcome in our home.
With paring knife in hand, he would have proceeded.
Slipping the tip under the apple’s skin, and peeling, round and round and round,
turning the fruit as he peeled off its red coat in one long strip.
One after another, the apples were left naked.
Cut and cored, seeded too,
then tossed into the pot to await their duty.
For an hour or two, my parents stood there,
comfortable in the silence,
not needing to make conversation, just doing this task,
that was done many a Sunday in the fall in our home.
Applesauce. They would make applesauce.
Into the pot and onto the stove element went the apples.
On a low flame, for hours at a time, they were stirred, then they simmered.
A touch of sugar added to enhance the natural flavours.
Applesauce. They would make applesauce.
And when the apples had simmered and softened and cooled
they were jarred.
Jar upon jar. Lidded and labeled.
Placed in the basement refrigerator for
each time a jar was called upon,
a jar was needed.
I miss those days.
I miss their applesauce.
