“If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe.” — Carl Sagan
If Milo wished to make the perfect apple crisp to serve at his birthday party, he must first find the perfect apple variety. Sure, he could pick up some Granny Smiths or Fujis from the Fairway on 74th and Broadway, but he wanted this birthday dessert to be memorable. Hence the trip to the farmers market in Union Square.
Scanning the stalls in late September was always a joy. Hearty greens, winter squashes, and bushels of apples transformed the otherwise unattractive concrete expanse into a cornucopia. Approaching one of the vendors who specialized in apples, he began to read the labels on each basket. This vendor alone had about ten varieties of apples, and they were one of at least a half dozen vendors. He should have done some more research before this market visit, but it was too late for that now.
Some varieties of apples could be ruled out quickly. Either he was familiar with their culinary potential or the signage specified they were eating apples and not baking apples. Still, he was looking at the possibility of baking more than one crisp per night until his birthday if he wanted to get it right. Should he cancel his standing tennis match? Skip a week of theater? No. He could get it all done. He might lose a little sleep, but he could make it up after the party. It would be worth it.
He bought four apples, two of each unknown variety, at the first stall. The pairs went into brown paper lunch bags he’d brought from home, each labeled with Sharpie. Those went into his larger shopping bag, a tote from Jurassic Park: Life Finds a Way! the Musical, a recently closed show and the biggest flop the theater company he worked for had ever produced.
On to the next stall.
Again, he could immediately rule out many of the varieties this orchard offered, but they didn’t have the same informative signage as the previous stall. While tempted to avoid patronizing them altogether for this paucity of data, he was intrigued by a variety he’d never come across. Clemens Climax? As he pulled his phone from his pocket for an internet search, the woman staffing the stall approached him. She was a knockout, big and curvy, with blonde hair in two braided pigtails, a low-cut shirt, and overalls. An organic-looking silver necklace directed his line of sight to her cleavage, and he caught himself staring at the pure bounty of her.
“Can I offer you a sample?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Milo said, his eyes flicking back up to meet hers, which were a warm chocolate brown. “I’d love to try the Clemens Climax. I’ve never heard of it before.”
The woman picked a pale green apple out of the basket. With her other hand, she deftly flicked open a pocketknife. Wiping the blade on the bib of her overalls, she first sliced a circle out of the apple’s pink flesh, which she popped into her mouth. The second slice made a clean crescent of apple. Smiling coyly, she held it out to Milo. It felt a little like a dare. This woman was a stranger, food safety protocol was out the window, and technically, she was holding him at knifepoint.
He took the slice of apple.
It was the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten.
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