To Hold an Apple in Your Hand
To Hold an Apple in Your Hand
For my Nana.
If the symbol of a US fall is a pumpkin, the symbol of a British autumn is an apple. At least traditionally speaking. These days both fruits are grown and enjoyed in both lands but pumpkins are native to America, whereas apples are not and apples have been growing tin the UK for thousands of years, whereas pumpkins have not. Out of 7,000 varieties of apple worldwide, over 2,000 of them are said to have been cultivated in the UK. An incredible statistic made even more remarkable when you bear in mind the tiny size of the UK.
Considering the deep significance of apples in British consciousness, it disappoints me that we don’t see more apple related celebrations in autumn. While visiting a pumpkin patch is becoming an increasingly common autumnal activity, orchard open days are a rarity. Perhaps it’s because there are now so few working orchards According to some estimates, as much as 90% of traditional orchards have been lost since the 1950s.
You’ll understand, then, why I feel so lucky that our town hosts an annual apple day. Held in a village, at the site of an old mill, hundreds of people from the local area flock to peruse stalls from local farmers, sample toffee apples and watch displays of Morris dancing and sheepdog herding, all washed down with a pint or two of cider. Each year the event seems to expand in scale but apple treats are always at the centre. I love it partly because it makes me feel like I am living in an episode of Gilmore Girls and partly because it gives me a nudge to celebrate British apples by eating and cooking with them while they are in season.
This year’s apple day was on Sunday and I had planned to go and write to you all about it. It will have to wait for another year.
On Friday I received a message from my Mum to say that my beloved 95 year old Nana was very unwell and that no more medical interventions were possible. “If you want to say goodbye, you need to come soon,” she added.
It was already late so Tom and I decided that we’d travel up to Chester in the morning. He could see I was upset at having to wait so he offered to take the children to their music lessons to give me some time to process. I’d planned to run myself a bath but, once they’d left, I felt myself drawn to the kitchen. I lingered at the sink with a glass of water and noticed a bag of apples on the counter. More than resting in the bath, I realised I needed to do something with my hands.
I quickly looked up apple recipes and found a Dorset apple cake that required simple ingredients I already had in the cupboards.
As my hands peeled and sliced, measured and stirred, forgotten memories of my Nana returned one after another and I cried, grateful for tangible moments of connection that somehow eased my sadness at still being here and not already there with her. Once the cake was in the oven, I found a notebook, smoothed the page and began to write down all the remembered snippets. Fifty minutes later, the timer went off and I had 12 page of notes.