Fruit Slinger

2009-04-21T08:19:00.003-05:00

Hello.

Fruit Slinger is moving to new servers, which may cause some site hiccups and might bork the RSS feed to which you have subscribed. Or might not have subscribed. Or if you have subscribed, it might not bork the feed.

There's really no telling.

Listen, if I understood how RSS feeds worked, probably I would not be selling fruit.

Which . . . I will be doing for another season, it seems.

2008-11-06T06:30:00.004-06:00

This post is really earnest — the kind of earnest that might be embarrassing for everyone. Like when people read bad poetry aloud.

* * *

For all the things I've said on this blog, there is one thing I have managed not to mention. It happened for the first time back in July. I didn't know what to make of it then, but I was pretty sure that writing about it would send the blog rocketing over the shark. Now here we are at the end of the season. I never did figure out quite how to handle it, but I'm pretty sure that now it's OK to write about:

I sometimes think that everyone who reads the blog has come up and said something nice to me at the markets. That's the only way to square the readership figures with the number of people who have taken the time to seek me out and say something kind.

Those comments really made my day. Sometimes my week.

One Sunday it happened in front of two guys I was working with, who knew nothing about the blog until that moment. They got a huge kick out of watching me squirm in embarrassment at being outed and complimented at the same time. In that instance and perhaps in others, in the midst of my squirming, I'm afraid I may not have been able to get across how great it was to hear those things. So thank you. It was really great.

The same goes for the emails, which — let's be honest — have not been so numerous that I couldn't respond to them all personally to say thank you. But, just the same, thanks again. It's really great when people take the time to write a note.

If you linked to the blog or facebooked it? Hugely encouraging. Thank you.

If you commented? Really satisfying. Thanks.

Some of you chose to suffer in silence and that's fine too. That's probably what I'd do. Thanks for reading.

Now I have a few nice things of my own to say.

Thank you, Stephanie. Thank you, Stu. And thank you, Nick. All of my friends have been encouraging beyond measure but you three have had to listen to me talk about the blog far more than any three people on earth, and far more than you deserved. If someone tried to talk to me about his blog, I would be tempted to stab him with a pencil. Thank you for not stabbing me with a pencil.

There is one more person to thank, even if I don't know quite what to say.

Pete, you've been really great about letting me do the blog, trusting me to write about my job, about the farm and about you — all of it without checking up on me. Thank you. This is Fruit Slinger. I guess you're allowed to read it now. I hope I did OK by you. I hope you laughed. I hope you liked it.

* * *

All right. So here's the thing: I have kicked around the idea of doing another blog. But it's hard to imagine loving another blog like I love this one. Any blog I started now would be a rebound blog; I'm afraid it wouldn't mean as much to me and I'd just end up kicking it to the curb.

I'm not ruling out doing something like this again — maybe another season of Fruit Slinger , maybe something else — but I just can't say right now. If you keep the blog in your feed or join the facebook group, you'll know what happens if it happens.

You know, I wrote most of this entry months ago, when the days were long and peaches were just off the trees. I figured that would give me time to come up with the perfect way to put the blog to bed.

But now I realize that there may be nothing better than simply saying that this is the end.

And it is.

At least for now.

2008-11-05T12:57:00.004-06:00

I'm packing up my canning supplies. That might sound like a prelude to a trip in a Conestoga wagon, but really it's just that I threw together some apple butter the other day . . . . and now I think that's it. I thought about making applesauce, but do I eat applesauce? No, I do not eat applesauce.

Although, I don't really eat that much jam either and the 7 half-pints and 1 pint of apple butter join 7 half-pints of blackberry jam, 3 half-pints of blackberry preserves, 6 half-pints of peach jam, 3 half-pints of apricot butter, 4 pints of peaches in light syrup, 5 half-pints of apricot preserves, 6 half-pints of strawberry preserves, 2 half-pints of cherry preserves, 5 half-pints of blueberry jam, 5 half-pints of blueberry syrup, 3 half-pints of black raspberry preserves, 2 quarts and 1 pint of blackberries in their own juice, 3 quarts of raspberries in light syrup, 1 quart and 2 pints of black raspberries in light syrup, 2 pints of peach preserves and 1 half-pint of pear butter.

Not to mention the stuff I turned into booze.

I know, I know. You're looking at the list and wondering why there isn't more.

It's because I've already given a few jars away.

2008-11-03T19:05:00.005-06:00

Now that it's November, we're down to just the twice-weekly Green City Market, which has moved from Lincoln Park to the Peggy Notebaert Nature Museum.

Saturday was the first day in the new location.

Among the usual parade of Saturday customers, I saw people who had been coming to other markets and made the trek to this one, now that the other markets have wrapped up.

I also saw a lot of new faces. There are those who like to divide their spending among the various farms, but a lot of people also pick one farm and stick with it. On Saturday, we were practically the only fruit game in town because a few of the other orchards have dropped out and one took the day off. So we got a lot of new people filing through.

I was in a great mood on that particular day, so they probably don't know what they're in for if they come back.

* * *

I spend a lot of my time at the market answering questions — mostly about fruit.

But with the change of venue and the new set up, we were right up against a vegetable stand.

So I got a lot of vegetable questions directed to my back.

"I've never seen purple carrots."

I turned around to face an older woman.

"Can you tell me about them?" She had a faint British accent.

"Um. I sell fruit, but my understanding is that carrots were bred to be orange by the Dutch and that they come in all kinds of colors."

She seemed amused and satisfied by the answer. I turned around and went back to selling apples.

Then there was another question.

"Excuse me, can you tell me what this is?"

"Um. I sell fruit. But . . . give me a second. The name is on the tip of my tongue. Oh, right! I'm pretty sure it's kolhrabi."

They nodded and I turned back around until they shouted back, "You were right! Kohlrabi! Here's the sign."

If this fruit thing doesn't work out, it's good to know I have a fallback career selling vegetables.

* * *

On Sunday — the first Sunday without a market — I had the guys I'd been working the Sunday market with over for waffles. I made buttermilk waffles with a bit of cornmeal in the batter and served them with apple butter (the spillover from my canning bender the night before) and maple butter.

To make the maple butter, I took unsalted butter, whipped it until creamy with the electric beaters, and incorporated some Grade B maple syrup.

Grade B maple syrup sounds like something that would be doled out with government cheese, but in fact is graded thusly because it has MORE maple flavor. That's right. Apparently, maple flavor in maple syrup is considered a defect and syrups with a more uncomplicated sweetness are awarded higher grades.

Don't worry. I'm already writing daily nastygrams to the Maple Council. And shaking my fist in the air. And . . . buying Grade B maple syrup.

I used unsalted butter because I wanted to add kosher salt to the mixture. The thicker flakes provide crunchy, salty little bursts.

It was as good on the waffles that morning as it was on the squash that night.

* * *

"I would like seven Red Delicious, please."

"We don't have Red Delicious."

"Well, why don't you have them anymore? Are they out of season? Last year they were around for a while!"

She was a little upset and while I wanted to sympathize with her, I couldn't. And when I say that, what I mean is that I didn't want to.

There is a very good reason we don't have any Red Delicious but I couldn't quite bring myself to tell her. I did offer a partial explanation.

"Well. . . I mean, we sold about seven of them a day. On the days you came."

For a while, we kept bringing Red Delicious because, you know, we have them. (What are we going to do, chop the trees down?) And we had plenty of space at the market and it was the height of apple season and it was nice to say we had 16 kinds of apples, even if one of them was Red Delicious.

But now that we've changed locations and have a bit less space, we've trimmed our inventory slightly. And it was an easy decision to stop bringing the Red Delicious.

"Well, do you have anything like a Red Delicious?"

That would be a hell of a thing to say about an apple.

I wanted to say, "Oh, good GOD no!" But instead I shook my head.

She stood there quietly, almost expectantly. But there wasn't much I could do for her.

I moved on to another customer. She shuffled away defeated.

I told Peter we had upset a customer by failing to bring the Red Delicious.

"Did you tell her you were the one who decided that we shouldn't bring them?"

"No . . . but I told her that she was the only one who ever bought them."

By the way, we have enough HoneyCrisp left to last us about a week, maybe a week and a half.

2008-10-31T17:09:00.004-05:00

For Halloween, I dressed up as a real person: I slipped into some slacks, laced my shiny shoes, buttoned up a shirt, and knotted a tie.

I went for a job interview. Afterward, I took myself out for coffee at Julius Meinl. They are a good customer of the farm and some of the people there know me. The woman at the front of the restaurant was happy to see me. I said hello to her. She stared at me for a moment.

"Wait. Where is it I know you from?"

"From the farmers market. It's just that I'm coming from a job interview, so. . ." I flipped up my tie and she laughed.

Honestly, when I looked in the mirror this morning, I barely knew me.

* * *

Mado changes its menu constantly but if you were to go soon, I bet you'd find many of the same dishes that added up to a fantastic meal last night: onion soup with cheddar croutons; house-made wild boar sausage; house-cured anchovies (sardines?) topped with radish and preserved lemon; roasted brussels sprouts with house-made bacon; risotto with roasted lamb and rosemary; a maple-pear tart, and rice pudding topped off with raspberries and almonds.

There's a 2005 Tomero Malbec available at Sam's down the road that costs $15 and tastes like you paid at least twice as much.

Enjoy.

2008-10-29T17:08:00.011-05:00

With so many things in life — say, my time in Argentina and, arguably, this blog — I value quitting while I'm ahead.

I was in such a good mood at today's last outdoor Green City Market.

So I left early.

* * *

The more I write about the blog itself, instead of using the blog to write about other things, the closer it comes to imploding from the weight of its own self-importance.

That said. . . I did not intend to overstate the intimacy of my relationship with dignity. You're talking about a guy who spends half the summer running around in dirty jeans and a t-shirt that reads "delicious."

Dignity and I have met, but I wouldn't say we're close.

Also, everyone has figured out that writing about Fruit Slinger is a good way to get me to link to your blog, right? It doesn't hurt if I've known you half my life. Thanks, Jeff.

* * *

Is $4 a lot to pay for a half-gallon of pear cider? I mean. . . I don't know. Maybe it is.

What would be a fair price for pear cider? Three dollars for a half-gallon? Two dollars? Should we give it away?

It is pear cider, for god's sake. Are there that many places you can find it, let alone find it for $4? If you don't want to buy it, then don't buy it. It's not something that's essential for life.

It's not like we're charging for air.

You wonder how many bottles of water that guy has bought in his lifetime.

Maybe he has a pear cider tap at home?

But that seems like something he would have mentioned.

2008-10-26T18:02:00.008-05:00

I'm telling you right now, this one is not as detailed or as interesting as the last one. But there are more pictures.

Wednesday

3.30 Out of bed! Good morning, world! Good morning, thoughts running through my head! Good morning, absolute blackness of night!

3.45 Out the door. It's fricking freezing. It couldn't get any colder than it is now, right? Still, an abundance of caution prompted me to purchase gloves and a hat the night before — just in case it's somehow this cold again any time in the next six months or so.

4.20 Arrive at Green City Market. FIRST VENDOR THERE! YES! IN YOUR FACE! [NAME OF FARM] RULES!!!!!

Sorry. I got a little carried away there.

Do you like how I've never named the farm once on this blog? Back in the spring, when I was trying to pitch the idea of doing a blog sort of like this to some larger food web sites, I got a few responses back that indicated they weren't interested in a blog that would essentially be shilling for a farm. Fair enough. I tried to get them to understand that that wasn't at all what I'd be doing. But I guess the logical question that follows is, "Then why would you be doing the blog?"

Six months later and that question still hangs in the air.

4.25 I start unloading the truck. I decide that with the threat of rain, I will put tents up, even though they block whatever sunlight might show through and make it that much colder. Also, tents are heavy and I am lazy, so this is not a decision I make lightly.

5.00 Tamera from the stand across the way shows up at the truck door to find me alone unloading crates. "Peter has you working like a dog, huh?"

"Haha. Yeah."

"Listen, we're going to go park the truck and get some coffee. Do you want something?"

"Wow, that's really nice of you. I'll take a small black coffee, please. Thank you!"

The Sunday before she had seen me shivering at the Wicker Park market and insisted on getting a vest from her truck for me.

Today, I try to give her a few bucks for the coffee and she declines. Later that morning, I make sure she and her husband get a few cups of hot cider from our stand. Her husband, a pretty quiet guy, makes a point of telling me it hit the spot.

7.00 - 13.30 Eh, you know. It's a market. People buy their HoneyCrisps. I talk to Joe at the cheese stand.

I decide that, if I'm going to wear Peter's hat today, I'm going to wear Peter's hat today. Some people stare at me quizzically. Some people ask, "Is Peter here today?" at which point I am allowed — compelled! — to answer: "No, but I'm wearing his hat today."

This, in case you have not already reached this conclusion, is hilarious.

At the time.

To me.

I chat with Peter on the phone quickly before he leaves for Italy. Really, it's a pretty slow day. Wednesday traffic has tanked. We actually end up with unsold HoneyCrisps.

13.30 Pack up truck.

14.00 Pull out of the market.

14.45 Arrive home. I have about 45 minutes to myself! What shall I do? Every minute I spend thinking about this is a minute I can't spend sleeping. I read and answer email for 15 minutes or so.

15.00-15.45 Listen to podcast and take a nap.

15.45 When it was still warm outside — in July probably, or maybe August — someone asked Peter if he could attend a fundraising event. He said he might be out of town, but that I could do it. "Really?" I asked. "You'd let me represent the orchard?" Fast forward a few months. It's cold. I'm tired. And . . . I'm going to the event!

[16.00 I tried to set up a coffee date with this guy who works at the market. It didn't take. But this is when it would have been. I look at my phone, see the time and roll my eyes. I feel like I kind of got the cold shoulder after weeks of encouraging signs. Anyway, he can't blame me for trying, can he? Eh. Maybe he can't. But I sort of do. It gets old.]

17.00 The fundraiser is about an hour's train ride away. Chefs from local restaurants have been paired with farms and are serving small plates to patrons. I have been told that there will be pizza and beer for me before the event.

I ask where the beer is.

"It's in the cooler. But be judicious! It's going to be a long night."

Not if I leave early, it's not.

I have a beer. I had arrived early for set-up. This turns out to be me standing behind a small table in front of a stove for 45 minutes or so before the guests arrive. I make small talk. This is not one of my gifts.

The sign in front of the table has Peter's name on it. A few people know Peter and say, "You're not Peter." Sigh. No. No, I'm not.

As I've said before, Peter is Peter.

On a good day, I'm "it's nice to see you, too."

I talk up the orchard and explain to people what they are tasting. Since there is no sign indicating what we're serving, I say the words "cider-braised short ribs with cheddar grits, topped off with watercress, pears and applewood smoked cheddar" approximately 7000 times.

There are a few people I know from the markets, which is nice to see. Some of them take a moment to recognize me in clean clothes.

Talking and being nice gets a little tiring. Two nights before, I had done a cider tasting at a small grocery store in town, meaning I was the face of the farm. The face of the farm had to smile for nearly two hours. What if it had frozen like that?

Don't worry. It didn't.

20.30 I judge when I can make my exit and scramble home.

22.00 Good night, world. Good night, thoughts running through my head. Good night, absolute blackness of night.

Thursday

10.00 Farmward ho! I should have been on the road hours ago, but I just couldn't bear to get up early enough to beat the traffic. Getting on the road at this hour means it will be about 2.30pm Michigan time by the time I end up at the farm. The better part of the day will be spent going from Point A to Point B.

13.30 I greet Lupe. He has to finish up some cider mill work before he gets to packing the van. I go into the farmhouse to do some paperwork, check my email and browse the Web a bit.

15.45 Lupe comes into the farmhouse. He sees my MacBook on the floor.

"Is that a computer?"

"Yes."

"Are they expensive?"

"Well, you can spend as much or as little as you like. It's like a lot of things. Cars. Clothes."

"Yeah."

He takes a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. "Do you know what this is?" Scrawled on the paper are the specs of a desktop computer.

"My niece wants me to bring her an HP computer."

"Oh? The niece I met before?" She had visited over the summer.

"Yes. I don't know what she's studying but she says she needs a computer and wants me to get it here."

"Won't it be hard to get it back to Mexico?"

"No, I'll just put it in my truck."

"Don't you have a lot of other stuff to go with you?"

"No, not too much."

"What about your canning?"

"Well, I have one case of peaches, one of plums . . . "

I make a note to myself to give Lupe a jar of jam.

16.00 You can read about this in the entry below.

17.00 Leave farm for drive back to city.

20.30 Dinner with friends. I had told them not to wait for me, because I didn't think I'd be home in time. But I walk through the door while they're still at the table and they hesitate not one bit in setting a place for me. I'm lucky to have great friends and I'm reminded of this all the time.

Friday

7.00 Run over to van to hand keys to Josh so he can make restaurant deliveries.

11.00 Deliveries are finished and I take the van to Michigan.

15.00 Stop at South Haven, Mich., Wal-Mart. When I am here, I feel like I am on Mars. Good prices on long underwear, though.

16.00 Arrive at farm. Lupe and I go over the packing list for the truck.

17.00 One of the farm workers — Rodrigo — is going back to Mexico. He always calls me amigo. He comes to the house and we settle some loose ends. I wish him well and say good luck.

Lupe had told me Rodrigo was going to leave the next day. Five minutes later Rodrigo's pick-up rumbles past the house. He honks and waves goodbye.

He's gone.

What must Southwestern Michigan look like to someone from Sinaloa, Mexico? What must he tell people about the things and places and people he's known when he's north of the border? Or maybe he doesn't talk much about it at all. Maybe he doesn't think about it much. Maybe he prefers to live where he is at the moment.

It's been a long time since I've been very good at that.

19.00 I have a glass of wine and a quick dinner. Apples and peanut butter? No. I wish! Some really bad clam chowder from a can.

20.00 Off to bed. Morning comes early and sleep comes easily.

Saturday

1.45 It is so disorienting to wake up here. I always panic at first. Like, what if, addled by exhaustion, I hadn't calculated the time difference between the farm and the city correctly? And I woke up an hour too late? AND THEN PEOPLE DIDN'T GET THEIR FRUIT?

2.00 On the road again.

4.30 I'm not the first vendor here. But I'm the only one from our farm. So I unload most of the truck myself. At the risk of sounding like a martyr, surely no one has ever suffered more.

As I nearly empty the truck, two guys show up. I am very, very crabby. The market manager helps me lug the coolers full of cider off the truck, even though this is not even remotely his job. He just wants to move things along.

7.00 Last outdoor Saturday Green City Market opens for business. After this, we move indoors to the nature museum down the road. Mostly I'm tired and — I'll admit it — not super, super interested in selling fruit at this particular moment, so my mind wanders quite a bit. I think about all the things that have happened at this market this summer. All the people who have filed through. All the hard work and good fruit.

Now I look around and see only apples. The season is winding down. This blog is too, by the way. Lately I've been reminded of the value of closure. Sometimes it's what you least want, but what you most need. Also, I'd rather wrap up the blog with some dignity — before it has to be taken out back and shot.

10.00 A very famous chef stops by to pick up some cider. I cannot understand a damn thing he says. Hees accent — eet ees so theek! He's very nice to me, though. I ask him, as I often ask chefs when they buy from us, what he plans to do with the cider. He is happy to relay his plan to me. I understand about half of it.

13.30 Market is over.

Today was the last Wicker Park market. Tomorrow I go to Michigan. Tuesday is the last Lincoln Square market. Wednesday is the last outdoor Green City Market.

2008-10-24T09:38:00.010-05:00

Yesterday while Lupe was loading the van I grabbed a shipping box and ran out to the apple trees. Now, as I've said, normally I only pick what I eat.

But this time I picked apples for my mom.

Front to back: Golden Supreme, Golden Russet, Senshu, Jonagold.

I ran back to the van and called out to Lupe.

"¿Está todo? No parece tanto, la verdad." ("Is that everything? It doesn't really look like much.")

"Sí, está todo." He went over the packing list with me.

I was wearing dirty jeans, the sweatshirt I had worn the day before, and a ski cap. Lupe was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and a baseball cap that read "Jesus is my boss."

"¡Hasta mañana!"

"Hasta luego."

On the way back to the city, it started to rain. It's supposed to rain most of this weekend.

I just re-read Peter's itinerary. He's getting back a day later than I thought he was.

Ugh.

2008-10-23T15:49:00.003-05:00

Being Peter isn't leaving me time for blogging. Being Peter isn't leaving me time for anything.

2008-10-20T11:25:00.003-05:00

Please do not tell me about your three-day cleansing diet, wherein you eat only apples, and how that is why you need to purchase the large basket of apples.

Please do not tell me about that.

* * *

Please do not play tonsil hockey in front of the fruit stand. I know you are so in love that you cannot wait to demonstrate your affection for each other. But demonstrate it to each other, not to me.

Seriously, I am trying to eat an apple here.

* * *

It's going to be a long time before I make another apple pie.

In the end, isn't there value in knowing what you do well and focusing on that? Like, I'm pretty good at selling fruit. And I bet you if I thought about it, I could come up with something else I'm good at.

* * *

"Are your apples organic?"

"No, they're not. But we use some organic sprays and we spray as little as possible."

"Oh."

I could tell she was disappointed, and — let me be clear — I am not unsympathetic to this.

She stared at the apples. I broke the silence: "There is a guy at this market who does have a few types of organic apples, but I think he's only here on Wednesdays."

"Oh, yeah."

By now she was picking through a quart of Mutsu apples. Mutsus are large, green and fairly tart, not unlike a Granny Smith.

"But these are not organic?"

"That's right."

She had asked again because she thought that I'd change my answer? That she'd break me down and get me to admit that they were organic after all, and that I just couldn't bear to tell her the truth the first time around?

She spent a long time fondling and carefully considering the apples.

"If you take any longer to decide about those apples, they'll be out of season by the time you pull the trigger," I said to myself.

In my head, I am hilarious.

"I guess I'll take this basket," she said.

She examined them one by one as she put them into the bag.

"But I don't want this one," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because it's got those little spots on it."

Gaw! "That's because we don't spray very much!" I was half-shouting. I held the apple up to her. "Good Lord, you of all people should appreciate that!"

She laughed. "Yeah, I know." She paused. "But can I switch it out?"

"Sure. There's nothing wrong with that apple, but switch it out. That's fine."

She switched it out. I took her money. She collected her change.

Now, you might think that my half-screaming at her would have sent her scurrying away. In fact, no. It's remarkable what you can say — or half-scream — as long as you're smiling. This is surely the only reason I've lasted in this job as long as I have. That and the free fruit.

Apples in hand, she stayed to tell me about how she remembered picking Mutsus back in the day. I listened politely, just as I listen politely — and frequently with genuine interest — to everybody's stories about apples, apple-picking, apple pies, baked apples, apple trees. . . everything from A to Zestar!™.

I really have no interest in selling you a bad apple. We go through them all before we put them out and make an effort to set aside the imperfect ones. (Often, this means that they're only cosmetically imperfect.) If you saw how many thousands upon thousands of apples there are at the orchard, you would understand that we have no motive to send you home with a bad one. It doesn't even make sense. So, really, take the apples that make you happy. But there can be trade offs between growing practices and appearances, and you should consider what's more important to you.

That is why, in this case, I had to call her on it.

Some people need to be given a hard time. I feel like I'm pretty good at identifying those people.

Oh, see? I knew there was something else I was good at.

Call it a gift.

2008-10-19T21:21:00.003-05:00

Don't you think that, in a way, everyone who entered the pie contest is a winner?

Of course, in another way, I didn't even make the first cut.

2008-10-17T16:49:00.003-05:00

You know, I read my fair share of cooking and food web sites. I have yet to see anyone talking about what an unholy mess you create when you make all of this crap.

Sorry, delicious crap.

I also have yet to see anyone talk about how ridiculous you feel taking 17 photographs of egg yolks to come up with one serviceable image.

Anyway, I didn't make a pie yesterday. But today I made:

• a double-crust apple pie with 8 Golden Russet apples and 1 Mutsu apple

• cinnamon-cider ice cream, using a custard base infused with whole cinnamon sticks and incorporating the cider in the form of a ribbon of cider reduction

• one hell of a mess

Today was my last practice pie. The contest is this Sunday. It's a fundraiser. If you're interested in coming to eat and to bid on pies, there is information here. If you see me, please say hello. I will probably have been up since 4am, so you might have to say it twice. And slowly.

The contest organizers required names for the pies. I approached this cynically at first, wondering which name would give my pie an edge. But in the end, I went a different way. In the extraordinarily unlikely event that my pie should win, I wanted the name to make clear its fundamental ingredients.

Thus, Dumb Luck and Heirloom Apple Pie.

* * *

I'm not sure if next week I get to be Peter or if I have to be Peter, but he'll be out of the country for five days and he is leaving me in charge. Well, Lupe and me. Mostly Lupe.

I've also been drafted — actually, I might have volunteered — to do a cider-tasting on Monday and a fundraiser for The Land Connection on Wednesday.

Next week might be the week I lose it.

* * *

Take a look at this post on The Kitchn regarding people's favorite apples. One name crops up again and again.

* * *

Week after week, Fruit Slinger has provided dozens of people with mild amusement and photographs of fruit.

Meanwhile, it has provided me with a creative outlet, a time suck, occasional bursts of satisfaction, periods of self-loathing, and $6.34 before expenses.

Put another way: I'm ditching the ad on this blog in favor of a button that allows you to support Fruit Slinger by giving a buck or two. Why you would do this is frankly beyond me, but I promise not to judge you if you do. Just think, for as little as the price of a case of 2003 Muga Reserva, you could buy me a case of 2003 Muga Reserva.

It warms the heart, really.

Now let us never speak of this again.

2008-10-15T21:03:00.002-05:00

Right now I'm sipping an apple cider spiked with Calvados and thinking how all I really want to do tomorrow is make cinnamon ice cream with a ribbon of reduced apple cider and Calvados.

But I'm pretty sure I have to make a pie instead.

2008-10-14T20:14:00.005-05:00

How long had it been since I had woken up to daylight on the farm? Months.

I stumbled over the two guys sleeping on the floor with me, opened the door of the old farmhouse and stepped into the morning. Peter saw me and pumped his fists into the air in a victory gesture.

It's true, he had won. The day before I had wavered on whether I would go to the party or not. He told me it would be all right if I didn't. But then at the end of the day, he said: "See you there. You'll come."

And there I was.

I was in a funny mood. I spent most of the day in a hammock and inside my head.

I did pop out to mingle a few times. Peter kept introducing me as a food and travel writer. I went along with it.

Evening came. I didn't want to crash at the farm again. I didn't want to drive all the way home either. But clearly, neither Mike nor Brandon was going to drive.

Me: "I think it would be a good idea if I drove us home."

Brandon: "I'm fine."

Me: "You have a beer in your hand!"

Brandon: "Yes, but it's empty."

Me: "Good, so we agree."

Right before we left, Mindy Segal showed up with bacon chocolate chip cookies. I grabbed five, crammed one in my mouth and shoved the other four in my backpack.

We piled our shit into the Saab and piled ourselves in after. Mike was asleep before we hit the highway. Brandon stayed awake long enough to sing "Tiny Dancer" out the window. Then he passed out too.

Southwest Michigan was zipping by. Chicago was still two and a half hours away.

* * *

Hagglers, beware. It's the end of the season. My nerves are frayed. I have no patience. And I don't like you.

Today's worst offender drove me around the bend and back. Even when he was finished, he wasn't finished.

"How many days you here?" he asked. "When does market end?"

"For you, it ends today, " I told him. "Don't come back."

A woman had been watching the whole exchange.

"It takes all kinds, huh?" she said to me with an air of sympathy.

"I just . . . I mean . . . " I sputtered before I could get out a sentence. "Believe it or not, I'm basically a nice guy."

Basically.

2008-10-13T09:09:00.015-05:00

If you know me well, have met me once, or have gotten a sense of who I might be from anything I've written, you probably can't picture me riding in a red Saab convertible with the top down, flying along the highway toward Michigan, the wind whipping through where my hair would be if I had any.

There's a good reason for that. It turns out, I hate it.

Mike, from the front passenger seat: "Mffrgrwm mmmhrfgr?"

Me, from the back seat: "I can't hear a goddamn thing you're saying!"

From the driver's seat, Brandon turned around to look at me every so often — which was comforting because I thought maybe the pained expression on my face would convince him to put the top back up, but terrifying because WE WERE IN A CONVERTIBLE WITH THE TOP DOWN FLYING ALONG THE HIGHWAY.

At some point, the top went back up and I quit complaining. We stopped in town for dinner and then headed to the farm.

It was creeping up on to midnight and no one was outside. There were a few lights on in the farmhouse. Mike and Brandon rekindled a fire and had a few drinks. I unwrapped my sleeping bag and curled up on the floor, surrounded by silence.

The next thing I heard was Peter's voice outside the window. By then it was already morning.

2008-10-10T11:43:00.003-05:00

On Oct 9, 2008, at 2:47 PM, Anonymous Interlocutor wrote:

Thank you kindly. How's your pie prep coming?

At 07:02 PM 10/9/2008, Daniel Shumski wrote:

Mmm... it's coming along I guess. More misses than hits so far (with the crust) but I've made some progress. No terribly entertaining stories to tell.

My goal at this point isn't so much to win, it's to not embarrass myself.

On Oct 10, 2008, at 10:05 AM, Anonymous Interlocutor wrote:

That's kind of how I feel about life.

2008-10-09T12:09:00.006-05:00

If you don't read the comments on this blog, so far this season you've missed:

• a marriage proposal (Let's talk; I need insurance)

• at least one threat to stop reading (Most people skip the threat and go straight to the not-reading)

• a great link to an apple review database (Thanks, Matt)

• a YouTube video of a cat flushing a toilet

* * *

There's an end-of-season party at the orchard this Sunday. We're expecting about 150 people. Part of me would rather not skip a day's pay to attend. On the other hand, this is the first time I've been around late enough in the season to go, so I don't want to miss the chance.

A friend asked if Peter was going to put me to work at the party.

"No," I said. "I don't think so."

As soon as I said that aloud, I realized it probably wasn't true.

He probably will. But what the hell else am I going to do? Socialize? Pick apples? I suppose I might get drunk enough to talk to strangers. I doubt I'll get drunk enough to want to pick apples.

2008-10-08T14:57:00.007-05:00

Where's the fruit?

It's in the cider reduction, which is drizzled on the smoked wild salmon, which is on the baguette, which is in my tummy.

Small amounts of cider — maybe a half-cup — will reduce in about ten minutes. Start on medium heat and lower to a simmer as the volume decreases, stirring frequently if not constantly. You want it reduced to a sticky syrup, but you can stop before it gets to this point on the heat. Once you take it off the burner, the cider will become more viscous.

2008-10-07T21:15:00.005-05:00

Ah, fruit.

Everybody reading knows what an apple looks like, right? Good. Then we can dispense with the photo for this post.

Is there a better time to make a pie than a rainy afternoon? I've got a Northern Spy, Golden Russet and Jonathan apple pie with a cream cheese and butter crust cooling right now. I cheated and broke off a piece of crust. It's promising. Very promising.

A commenter on a past entry put in a recipe request for my pie contest winner. I can't post the recipe in its entirety because I can't find it online and it runs to six pages in the book — not a typing job I can tackle at the moment. But the cookbook in question is Flo Braker's "The Simple Art of Perfect Baking" and if you can't find it at the library, email me and we can figure something out.

This is a good time to mention that Flo's recipe includes phrases such as "cut in with a pastry blender until the pieces range in size from bread crumbs to small lima beans."

"Small lima beans?" Really, Flo?

On the subject of pies: For the next contest, I need to come up with a name for my pie by the end of this week. It's been suggested that I incorporate HoneyCrisp into the pie title to improve my odds of winning. But I'm not sure I could live with myself. Part of me wanted to name it after the blog, but Fruit Slinger apple pie sounds more like pie-tossing ammunition than a blue-ribbon finisher.

If you have an idea, shoot me an email.

* * *

"I hate apples! I cannot stand them."

I turned to face the man who said that. He's been selling fruit with me for a month or so now. Somehow, this hadn't come up before.

"Are you serious?"

He put out the Galas while I sorted through the Golden Supremes.

"Yes! Because my mother made me eat them all the time when I was a kid. They were the cheapest thing and they were terrible. Every day, apples! That is why I cannot taste them. I cannot stand them."

My coworker is French. Go back and read the paragraph above in the voice of Pepe Le Pew. He has lived in this country for 25 years, but his accent is as thick as the skin on a Golden Russet. (I'm going to come back and work on that sentence as soon as I have time, I swear to you.)

The great part about his accent is that he can get away with saying just about any damn thing. This is not lost on him.

Customer, surveying the apples: "I'm looking for something sweet."

Frenchman, surveying the customer: "Here I am!"

Late in the afternoon, another man with a different accent, thicker than unfiltered cider — don't worry, I'm all over this sentence, too — came up to me. "You have Macintosh?"

I pointed to the Macintosh.

"We have when little Macintosh."

"Oh yeah?"

I couldn't make out what he said in response. He dropped his cane and I reached to pick it up for him but he waved me away.

"Where are you from?" I asked him.

"From Ukraine!"

In two minutes, he told me about 65 years, stumbling around in English that, at his age, was broken beyond repair. He told me about everything he had left behind in the old country — about the apple trees he tended, about the honey, about the plum trees, about how he fled west and dodged artillery fire.

For the Frenchman, apples were a part of his past he was trying to escape. For the old man, they were a part of his youth he was trying to recapture.

2008-10-04T17:21:00.003-05:00

"The cider and the pears come to $8. Anything else?"

"No, I think that's it for today. Thank you."

"There's your change. Thanks very much. Enjoy."

"Is that the guy who owns the farm?"

"Him? Yeah."

"He seems like a nice guy."

"Peter? Yeah, he basically is."

"A little nuts though, huh?"

"On a good day, he's only a little nuts."

"Haha. I was only kidding."

"Really? Because I wasn't."

* * *

I hate being advertised to on the sly. So let me just say upfront: If you make a purchase via the Amazon link on the blog, Amazon will kick back a small part of the purchase price to me. It doesn't cost you anything, you don't have to purchase the item(s) featured in the link, and it's much less awkward than hunting me down to slip me 40¢.

Which you can also do.

But I don't make change.

* * *

You may find this article on making hard cider of interest. I did.

2008-10-03T17:22:00.005-05:00

I thought I was going to have to seek professional help.

Peter suggested it the other day and mentioned it again today when we spoke on the phone. And I was starting to come around.

It's slightly ridiculous because usually I would just lean on friends for this sort of thing — and in fact all the help I would ever need is down one flight of stairs from my kitchen. My friend is a top-notch pie maker.

But asking her for help seems too easy. (As it is, she bravely serves on the pie review committee and has been giving me feedback and suggestions.)

Mado sent out an email saying they're baking pies with three days' notice, and I thought about asking co-owner and pastry chef Allison Levitt for some advice. (Mado is also planning a special dinner around a whole wild boar, which has nothing to do with fruit. But I would want you to tell me if you knew a restaurant was planning a meal around a whole wild boar, so I'm telling you.)

At any rate, last night before the debate I made some dough and put two discs in the fridge. After the debate, I came back upstairs and put together the pie: rolled out the pastry, peeled and chopped the apples, stuck it in the oven.

At midnight, I set the pie on a rack to cool and went to bed.

For breakfast, I had pie. It's not award-winning, but it's not bad. I'm making progress.

The crust isn't the paragon of flaky virtue that it could be, but neither is it rock hard. After a long discussion with a woman who placed last year in the pie contest using our apples, I took a page from her book and used Golden Russet apples in the filling. Because I had two Jonathans, I threw them in, too. The Russets hold up phenomenally well, maintaining their crunch after nearly an hour in the oven. It may be that they make the cut, but I've been happy with other fillings, too. So we'll see.

(For anyone who actually views these posts as a semi-coherent narrative and might wonder how I could win a pie contest one week and then suddenly not know how to make pies: Before, I was using butter and shortening in the crust. But it's remarkable how even a small amount of shortening muddies the buttery richness of a crust, so I've set my sights on an all-butter crust, which seems to be a lot less forgiving.)

* * *

The most popular question these days at the markets is "How long does this market go on?" Meaning, on what date is the final market? (Answer: Our markets last through the end of this month.)

Wednesday morning a woman in her late 50s or early 60s rode up on her bike before the market opened, while I was stretching to attach the sign to the top of the tent.

"Excuse me," she said. "When does this market end?"

"It doesn't end," I replied. "It just goes on and on and on."

She studied me for several very long seconds.

"I'm just kidding," I said. "It goes through the end of the month outdoors and then we move inside to the Nature Museum through the end of the year."

"It sounds like you're ready for it to be over," she said as she started to wheel away.

"I'm all right. I don't want it to end. I'm just tired."

Very, very tired.

* * *

You can't grow an apple from seed. Well, you can grow an apple — but planting a seed from a HoneyCrisp apple will not give you a HoneyCrisp tree. In fact, it's likely the apples that come off that tree won't even be edible.

Apple trees are replicated through grafting — one part of a tree is attached to another part of a tree and allowed to fuse, producing a clone. Grafting can also be used to produce new varieties, or even to grow multiple varieties on the same tree.

(So what about Johnny Appleseed? Why would anyone go around planting apples from seeds if the fruit was almost certain to be inedible? Because it wasn't meant to be eaten. In early America, apples were viewed more as a source of cider than as a snack. Cider apples don't have to be edible to be pressed and made into an alcoholic beverage.)

Of course, every once in a while, you plant an apple seed and get a good apple. That's how some of the apples we know today came into being.

I owe practically everything I know on this subject to Michael Pollan, who wrote "The Botany of Desire: A Plant's-Eye View of the World."

What a great book.

Anyway, to answer the question from the comments the other day: No mad scientist experiments for us, no crazy fruit breeding — just catalogs and tree brokers.

* * *

It was really gratifying to see this blog get a little shout out in Leah Eskin's Chicago Tribune Magazine piece — more gratifying than my two-week delay in mentioning it would seem to indicate. (The magazine just made it into my hands last night.)

2008-10-03T10:14:00.006-05:00

Ah, fruit.

That's how I'm going to begin every post from here on out. I checked out Regan Daley's "In the Sweet Kitchen" the other day and saw that the first sentence of the jacket copy was "Ah, dessert."

You really can't argue with that. How would you even?

While we're contemplating dessert, consider the pear. No, really — consider it.

What? You want more than that? Fine. But you're going to have to wait until I put some cider on to boil (I'm going to try reducing it to a syrup and canning it), strain the latest batch of raspberry vodka, start on some apple vodka, and apply for a job.

Hahahahahaha. I'm kidding about that last part, of course. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.

2008-09-30T20:39:00.002-05:00

Yesterday afternoon I ran back and forth from the farmhouse to the truck, jotting notes on a rain-dampened scrap of paper and working with Lupe to put the finishing touches on the packing list for the next two days' markets.

Peter was out of town, so I was doing my best to fill in.

It should be fairly straightforward, but it gets tangled sometimes — like playing telephone in two languages. The customer tells Peter. Peter tells me. I tell Lupe. And then the next morning we see how it all turned out.

At dusk, the rain let up but dark gray clouds still hung heavy over the cherry trees. I washed down some apples and peanut butter with a beer and went to bed.

2008-09-28T21:10:00.010-05:00

A woman often comes Wednesdays to Green City Market about 6.30 as we're still setting up. She has always struck me as a little manic.

This week she darted over and spat out a question to Peter: "Do you have any peaches?"

"Nope," he responded. "Season's over for us."

She was upset. I know this because she shouted a single word and scrambled away, leaving Peter and me staring at each other with a look on our faces that said, "Did she just drop the F bomb?"

* * *

Apparently the market I skipped last week went off without a hitch. "No one gave us a hard time," one of my co-workers told Peter as we put out apples in the dark. (Tart to sweet, remember. Tart to sweet.)

"That's because all the hagglers have their own blog," Peter said. "They told each other to hold off until Dan gets back."

I laughed but stopped when Peter said: "What? They can't have a blog? You have Fruit Slinger."

Peter knows the name of my blog? Oh. That's right. One of the guys I work with found out about the blog and was giving me a hard time about it in front of Peter the other day.

I might have preferred that Peter not know the name of the blog yet, though he is responsible for the name.

The first summer I worked for the farm, I was breaking down the stand after the market. Peter knew I went to college and had previously managed to hold down a real job.

We talked about where I was in life and he asked me a question: "Do you want to get anything more out of this job, or are you content to just sling fruit?'

Actually, both.

* * *

I think I've made five pies in the last seven days — though I've lost track and it could be only four. As I told a friend today, whatever the number might be, certainly no one in this house feels like they need more apple pie.

While I've shared some of the pie, it's not quite ready for prime time so thus far there's only a short list of pie-eaters. Most days I've had a slice for breakfast and a slice after dinner. I've tried a lot of permutations — with lattice-top and without, thinly sliced apples and thicker apple wedges, with thickener in the filling and without, crust with standard butter and crust with European-style butter.

Honestly, at this point, no one in the competition has anything to worry about. Unless they happen to taste my crust, in which case they may worry about chipping a tooth.

Like I said, it's a work in progress.

I've tried different techniques, too.

One technique I do not recommend involves slicing your finger on the food processor blade. This slowed pie preparation considerably and was terribly, terribly painful.

You know what that lady said when she found out peach season was over? Yeah, that.

* * *

"Do you have any HoneyCrisps?"

"Nope. Sold out."

"What's your second-favorite apple?"

"Well . . . "

"I guess you never said HoneyCrisp was your favorite."

"Right."

He asked what other apple he might try and then had a follow-up question about HoneyCrisps: "Would you like them if there weren't so much hype surrounding them?"

"Maybe. . . I mean, that's definitely part of it. But, also, they're very crisp but not especially flavorful beyond the straightforward sugar-sweetness."

I did take home a handful of HoneyCrisps the other day. I threw one or two in a pie and ate a couple out of hand.

I mention this because, even as this blog is riven — RIVEN! — with disagreement between HoneyCrisp backers and detractors, I wanted to give them another chance.

So I did.

Ultimately, if everyone liked the same apple, there'd only be one kind and that's what we'd grow. And I don't want to live in a world or work for a farm with one apple.

It was a little sad Saturday morning putting out apples. For the first time, we had sixteen varieties — as many as we're going to have this season. We'll have sixteen for quite a few weeks, I expect. But there's nothing else on the horizon, nothing still to come in the season. In short, there's nothing else to look forward to.

Except starting all over again next year.

* * *

"Do you have Macouns?"

"No, we don't grow them."

"Do you have anything like a Macoun?"

Part of me hates this sort of question because — as much as I'd like to be able to answer it — I don't have room in my diet, refrigerator, budget or schedule to eat anything beyond the apples we grow. And I barely remember the apples I ate before I got this job.

I told the woman that I was pretty sure the people at Nichols grew Macouns and pointed her in the right direction.

But I still wanted to know the answer to the question "Do you have anything like a Macoun?"

So today I got a Macoun from Nichols. Crisp and delicious.

Macouns are part of the cross that gave rise to the HoneyCrisp.

The HoneyCrisp was developed by the University of Minnesota, which holds the patent to it and earns $1.30 for every tree sold. The patent expires this year. There's a lot of talk about — and a lot of money riding on — which apple will be the "next HoneyCrisp."

One apple that's been touted is the Zestar!™, which sounds more like a spacecraft than an apple.

I have no idea how the Zestar!™ tastes, whether it's as crunchy as a HoneyCrisp, or whether it can inspire the same fervor.

But I'm a little suspicious of any fruit with its own exclamation point.

2008-09-26T07:49:00.002-05:00

"So you're all set for the drive?"

Earlier this week, Peter had asked me about pitching in by going back and forth to the farm. I had somehow managed to dodge that for a week or two.

"Yeah, I'm on it. But I really don't want to go."

"I know."

"It helps you out, though?"

"Yes, it's a huge help."

"Well, if you hire anyone between now and Friday morning who really wants to drive six hours round-trip, definitely let me know."

I'm taking the van up there and the truck back. The radio in the van doesn't work.

"Make sure you bring your iPod for the drive up," Peter said.

"I will, but the van rattles so loud I can't hear it."

"Oh."

"It's terrible. It means three hours in the van alone with my thoughts."

Peter made a face. "I know. Scary."

"You're telling me."

Last year I kept a fruit blog for friends and a few people who read my previous blog about living in Argentina. Around this time last fall I was wrapping things up in Chicago and heading back to Buenos Aires. This year, I'm staying put.

Here's what I wrote on Sept. 26, 2007. It's what I'll be thinking about for three hours today. At least.

* * *

"You want the long day from hell?"

For someone who sells for a living, Peter didn't try very hard to sell me on the idea of going out to the farm yesterday after the market.

It does make for a long day — starting at 5.30am and getting back at 9.30pm. Still, I said yes. (Peter does this three or four times a week. Granted, Peter is nuts.)

While I was at the farm, I took some time to just walk around. I live half my life in my head, so it was easy to slip into pondering how this farm fits into the big picture for me. In between deep thoughts, I scoped out the melon field — so desiccated and vacant compared to its verdant, mid-summer glory — and picked a few heirloom apples.

I had asked Lupe when I first pulled up when the Golden Russet apples would be ready for picking. He told me he planned to pick them Friday for Saturday's market. Too late for my purposes. So I walked 10 minutes into the thick of the apple trees and grabbed four Golden Russets off the tree.

Russets have an appearance that suggests they must taste good. The russeting — the brownish, rough covering of the skin — is now almost exclusively known in its potato context, since apple russeting is not considered a desirable mass-market trait. You'll certainly never see a russeted apple in the supermarket.

Beneath the ugly exterior lies an incredibly dense, sweet flesh.

I walked back to the barn with my apples. Lupe saw me getting ready to leave. He left his dinner on the table and ran out to the truck. We double-checked a few things on the order checklist and then I told him I wouldn't see him till next year. He seemed to take it well — by which I mean he said what he usually says: "OK."

This time we shook hands and he added a "que le vaya bien." ("Hope it goes well for you.")

I drove off wondering how different my life would be the next time I pulled up to the farm.

I know how different it is now from the first time I pulled up this year.