Yesterday we made applesauce.
First, Farmer John climbed the apple tree and shook all the branches. I do not have a picture of this to share with you, and for that, I am truly sorry.
Next I collected all the fallen apples, which turned out to be a bushel of them. It was much more than we'd expected.
The apples aren't the prettiest ones ever. They have lots of insect bites on them. But, we subscribe to Joni Mitchell's apple-growing philosophy.
In the afternoon "Migrant Farm-Hand Becky" and I made applesauce. We peeled, sliced and cooked the apples into a chunky sauce. This was frustrating because it didn't cook down the way we'd expected.
So, this morning we ran the sauce through the "Squeezo-Strainer". Farmer John plopped the sauce into the hopper on the top. Then we cranked it. The chunkiest parts came out the end and into the blue bowl. The sauce came out through the strainer and down the chute. 
Finally we ladled the applesauce into jars, then stuck it in the fridge and freezer. We'll pull out a jar every now and then this winter and remember the bounties of summer.
Interesting that baling hay and making applesauce have similarities! You describe both beautifully. Your cattle might eat the applesauce, but I will not eat the hay!
ReplyDeleteWhat is Joni Mitchell's apple-growing philosophy? I am an original hippie and fan of hers, but I never got into her thoughts on raising food!
Mom, the original hippie? "Hey farmer, farmer put away the DDT. Give me spots on my apple, but leave me the birds and the bees"
ReplyDeleteI never said I could clearly hear the lyrics! Thanks!
ReplyDeleteI also did not know Joni M apple-growing philosopy. Tidbits like this make your blog interesting. The applesauce looks wonderful. You and Farmer John are going to enjoy your garden all winter long.
ReplyDeleteI wonder if making this on a wood fire like apple butter would have made it easier to cook down. Then again, those are some old apple varieties. There used to be apple trees that lined the lower part of the "hill road" on the right.
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