Crackle of the chill September and the wind blows. Today is the day—we can all feel it. Two and a half hours to Dixons’ and a jug of cold, pressed cider; now back home. The car is loaded and we have lots of work ahead. Apples sacked pile on the floor, apples soaking fill the sink, apples peeled and sliced are ready. Sticky juices and squeaking shoes, the kitchen is bustling with eight hands, all sweetly damp and deftly skilled. Champagne for the tart, Sparkling Burgundy for the sweet, their firm pinkish flesh combine—a seductive piquant make. Flavors meld, my tongue is singing, mellow spices on the crisp apple-y goodness. Cinnamon and sugar on the counter; Red Hots in the sauce; oats, flour, butter crumble; the air is filled and zesty. It smells like fall. Browning cores and countless seeds scattered, a crockpot bubbling in the corner. On the stove Great-Grandma’s speckled canner preserving the apple harvest and Nana’s cake is in the oven. Dishes stack, saccharine utensils coated, fructose hardens fast. Chatting with mother, the clean-up stretches long into the night. But best of all, tomorrow morning, I’ll eat a slice of golden apple pie.