A is for Apples

A When I was in the sixth grade, my best friend and I got into a horrible, evil, awful fight.  You know the kind of fight that only pubescent girls can have – we hated each other, we said mean things to each other, and we spent a lot of time in the school counselor’s office together, trying to work through our anger at each other.  Needless to say, neither of us were budging.  There is a long and involved story about why we were angry, but that’s not the point of this post.

Rather, the point of this post is to talk about what happened AFTER we got over being angry with each other.  See, in the sixth grade, we were the queen bees of the elementary school.  (Well, not US per se, but our grade was the oldest grade in the school.)  And then in seventh grade, we would change schools to the local junior/senior high school, where we were to become the youngest, lowliest, most ignored group of people around.  So the summer before seventh grade, we made up, deciding that it was probably really better to be friends than to be enemies in such a powerless setting.

So that fall, when the apples were in season, my mom decided she was going to make pies.  Apple pies.  And a lot of them.  What better way to keep a couple of 12-year-old girls busy on a Saturday afternoon then by having them peel bushels of apples?

We peeled and peeled and peeled.  We sat on the poppy-colored countertop in the kitchen, in our scrubby sweats, radio tuned to KLIZ at 107.5 FM, singing along to John Cougar Mellencamp’s anthem Jack & Diane (he was still Cougar back then).  And then we peeled more apples.  My mom probably made some super-tasty pies later that day.  I don’t really remember if I ate any of them or not.  I just remember peeling apples, laughing, and singing with my best friend.