I grew up in New York. Northern New York, apple country. Growing up we could go down to the orchard most of the year and buy a bushel of Macintosh apples for very little money. Apple salads, fruit salads, apple pies, apple crips, fresh, baked, and applesauce. We ate, and loved, it all. Since moving to Alaska I have eaten Rainer, pink lady, fuji, gala, red delicious, honey crisp and more but I have not had a macintosh apple in years.
The other day, at the very bottom, of the discount bin I saw an apple that gave me pause. I picked it up, looked at the sticker and gave a huge shout for joy. In my hand was an organic macintosh apple from Canada. (I grew up so close to Canada it kind of felt like these were the very apples that grew down the road from my house as a child.) I was maybe making a bit of a scene, even for me. I texted my sister and mother right away. These apples, after 14 years! The crispness, the taste, the look, the click of the knife as it cuts through the tough skin but the super smooth flesh. That pure whiteness of the inside of a mac. Nothing like it folks, nothing. With one little apple I was back in NY, a young girl and sitting down to a bowl of apple sauce over a pork chop in my mother's kitchen decorated with strawberries.
So I gathered up my apples and joyfully brought them home. I went right to work cutting them up and making an apple pie. Then I let the family each have a small piece and then maybe, just maybe, I kept it tucked away and enjoyed each bite of my childhood memories in the days to follow. You might laugh but to me macintosh apples were the essence of growing up. In this big wide world of being a grownup and living a life of responsibilities it was really great to take a bite and be carefree once again.