Whine. I never want to see another apple.
Whine. I’m only two-thirds of the way through the apple tote.
It’s been a long time since I had to cook for 50 people at a time, and I suppose I don’t have the stamina I used to. Although neither, crucially, do I have the cleanup crew.
It had started well enough. A neighbor came around with a petition regarding some local traffic changes, and it turned out she had an apple peeler to lend me. These, friends, are medieval torture devices that have been retrofitted for apples. And watch out, because I am now an expert at using them.
The entire kitchen was sticky and caramelized by last night. The windows all fogged up. A warm apple inferno. The apple butter had taken seven hours to cook down, not three. My food processor laughed at me, and my blender threatened to leave this world. I persevered. A rich gingery brown butter emerged, somehow exactly filling the number of jars I had. I collapsed.