How to Make Apple Butter

This past weekend was Apple Butter Weekend, and I wasn't there.  If you're a member of my extended paternal family, you would understand how sad this makes me.  It's not a festival that's on any municipal calendar of events, and it's not open to the public, but it is a large group of people I love, coming together every October to do battle with 10-15 bushels of apples and two large copper cauldrons.

Farm machinery is fun!  And big.  Very big.

Confused?  My grandfather was one of 11 children who grew up on a farm in the southeastern corner of Michigan, and one of the things they did every October when the apple crop came in was to preserve some it by making vast quantities of apple butter.  Over the years, as the kids grew up and moved to their own farms or away, this became an unofficial family reunion, and, eventually, the official family reunion.  They've been doing it for many decades now, and even though nearly all of my grandfather's generation is gone, the farm is still in the family*, and we still meet there every year to peel and chop and stir and gossip and eat.

A tiny fraction of the peels generated on Friday afternoon.

When The Cajun and I still lived in western Pennsylvania, it only took us 3 or 4 hours to get over there, so we went pretty regularly, but once we moved east, he couldn't go (though I still hitched a ride with my parents), and then when we moved to Boston, we couldn't go at all.  This year, my parents went, and I'm eagerly awaiting their report.

Southeast Michigan is flat.

What's apple butter, you ask?  Well, it's a preserve, a bit like very concentrated applesauce, but sweeter, and cooked for much, much longer.  A friend asked me several weeks ago to share the recipe, and I had to think about it.  We don't really have a recipe, we just make it.  So this is what I told her:

First step is to boil down the cider by half.  The sleepy dog is optional, and does not go in the cauldron.

"Honestly, I don't know that we use a recipe, but I'll check with my dad tonight. I know that on Friday morning, they build a fire, set up the copper "kittle" (a cauldron, actually), and start boiling apple cider down to a syrup while the rest of us peel and chop the apples (to do it properly, you'll need at least 10+ bushels and 30-70 German family members. And a barn.). Not sure what happens overnight, but on Saturday, we add the apples gradually as they cook down (they may start cooking them down on Friday night), and stir constantly for 4-5 hours.  It helps to have an "overflow" kittle so you can pull some out of the main kittle while you're loading the apples in, then you can add it back to the main pot as things cook down. And we stir constantly, though I'll forgive you if you're not using a wooden stir-stick with cornhusks tied onto it to help scrape the bottom of the cauldron. 

This is the "kittle."  The stirring stick has cornhusks tied onto the bottom.

After all the apples are in (it takes a while, they don't fit at the beginning), you keep cooking... until Aunt R.** says it's done.  Seriously, that's how we know. Though I think it's also when you put a glob on a plate, tilt the plate a bit, and no liquid runs out of the butter. Then you add any sugar and seasoning you want (I like cinnamon and very little sugar, depending on the apples, but this varies because half the family is diabetic), stir it in, pull the canning rings and lids out of their hot water bath, slop the apple butter into the jars, finger tighten the rings, flip them upside down, and let them cool. We've never bothered processing them in a hot-water bath because the stuff is like napalm when it goes in. They should seal themselves as they cool, but if you get one that doesn't, just put it in the fridge and eat it first."

Canning time.  Imagine this, times 15 or so.

In actual fact, once the apples are peeled and cored and chopped, there's not a lot of real work to do, other than stirring, which must be done constantly.  But only one person can stir at a time (carefully supervised and criticized by 6-10 other people), so a good chunk of Saturday morning and afternoon (depending on how quickly the apples got processed) is spent sitting around and catching up, eating (farming families know how to do a proper potluck), and making sure any small children present don't hurt themselves on the rope swing in the loft***.

Stirring needs to be carefully supervised.  Preferably while discussing football.

Once the apple butter is ready, there's another flurry of activity while the spices and/or sugar (and/or sugar substitute) are added, and the jars are filled.  Then the potluck dinner comes out, accompanied by some good bread and any apple butter that didn't make it into the jars, everyone eats until their jeans feel tight (and beyond, depending on how good the dessert table looks that year), the shed is cleaned up, the chairs and tables are put away, and everyone waves good-bye and drifts back home.

And then you're left with these delectable jars of fruity brown goo, useful for spreading on toast or pancakes or cornbread or baked chicken, or, if you're feeling generous****, distributing to friends and co-workers.

So you can see why I was sad to not be at the farm this weekend.  I really hope Mom and Dad can spare a few of their jars.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go bake some cornbread and see what a jar of the 2010 vintage tastes like.



* One of Michigan's "Centennial Farms," no less.  That means it's been farmed by the same family for over 100 years.  They have a nice sign that says so.

It's official: my family is cool.

** If Aunt R. is unavailable, Cousin W. may be substituted.

*** This is accomplished by demonstrating to them how to swing on the rope.  Sometimes you can manage to demonstrate 4 or 5 times before they catch on and demand their turn.

**** Or, like me, you don't eat it fast enough and have jars of several years past still sitting in your pantry.

House: 1, Anna: 0.

Perhaps it's the weather (grey and rainy*), perhaps it's the headaches (allergy season!), perhaps it's the general lack of sleep (no idea why, but it's not happening), but I just haven't felt terribly "sharing" recently.  And since, as I mentioned in my very first entry, I don't like to write when I'm grumpy...

But there was an minor incident this week that I thought I'd share, because it involved nature and industry ganging up on me, and me laughing at myself.

We have an automatic garage door**.  It and I have not gotten along terribly well since we moved in, but after changing the battery in my opener and fiddling with the prongs that hold it in place, I thought my problems with it were over and I could concentrate on the spiders in the garage and the weird noises that the air conditioning makes every time it goes on or off.  Until Friday.  On Friday morning, I went to leave for the library, pulled the car out, hit the button, and... nothing happened.  Nothing whatsoever.  I got out of the car, hit the button again (still nothing), went inside the garage, hit the inside button, and it acted like there was something in the way***.  It would descend an inch or two, then go back up.  If I held the button, it would keep descending until I let go, then either stop or go back up.  Totally frustrated (and late), I finally got it to stay within 12 inches of the floor, and left it that way, hoping that none of the neighborhood children would break in and do themselves an injury (it's a pretty safe area, fortunately).

On the way home, I called the company that manages our property (we're renting until we can sell our house in Pennsylvania), but they must have been at lunch, because nobody answered.  Which was just as well, because when I got home, everything worked as though there had never been a problem.  Sigh.  "A fluke!" I said to myself, and then stopped worrying about it.  It was fine all weekend, and I started to forget it had happened.

And then Monday, as I pulled out to go to the library again - the same dangity thing.  Exactly.  I got out, wandered around, hit different buttons hoping for a different result, swore quietly to myself, marched in and out of the garage several times...  And then I noticed the sun.  At 9:15 in the morning in the middle of October, it shines DIRECTLY**** into one of the sensors that tells the automatic opener whether or not there's something important in the way.  Apparently, this machine can't tell the difference between sunshine and a small child, because as soon as I shaded the sensor, it behaved flawlessly.

I feel as though I should be looking behind the hedges for the Candid Camera guy†.  Is that a laugh track I hear behind those bushes?



* Well, today it is.  The last several weeks, though, it's usually been brilliantly sunny and clear and warm.  Which is faintly disturbing; I should not be wearing shorts and a t-shirt outdoors halfway through October.  It's just wrong.

** Hooray!

*** There was not.  I checked.  I cleaned the sensor lenses.  I tried everything.

**** And did I mention that the sun is really BRIGHT in this part of the world?

† For those of you who aren't old like me, Candid Camera was a rather obnoxious show that set people up to look silly, then jumped out at them and yelled, "Surprise!" when they did.  Rather like that Punk'd show, only with Allen Funt instead of Ashton Kutcher.

Chewing Solo

Upon occasion, The Cajun travels for work.  I don't mind; he loves his job, and he's not having to circumnavigate the globe in two weeks* the way he used to, so it's not a bad thing.  I have lots to keep me busy, and a little solitary time is nice now and then.

Except for food.

We like to eat together, we like to cook together, and even if I'm doing all the cooking that night, it's much more enjoyable to feed someone else.  Cooking for one is boring.  Especially if that someone is me.  Back when The Cajun was on the road nearly 1/3 of his time, I found myself eating the same 3-4 meals, over and over and OVER.  Bean burritos with cheese and salsa, baked potato with cheese and salsa, a raman-y kind of soup with veggies and shrimp**, or something involving a couple of eggs and toast***.  Sense a theme?  Very little chopping, short cooking times (except for the potato, but that's easy), and not many dishes to wash.  Alas, not terribly good for me, either, although the soup is better than most.  All comfort food, and not much in the way of fruits or veg.

Sigh.

The inimitable Judith Jones wrote a wonderful book about cooking solitary meals****, but the thought of making something at all complicated or fancy when it's "just me" doesn't hold as much appeal, somehow.  Her food sounds delicious (and her writing is lovely; go find some now and read it.), but I'm not sure that I want to put quite as much effort as she does into it when I'm cooking for myself.  And does Mrs. Jones enjoy the cleanup as much as the cooking?  'Cause I HATE dishes, and would much rather spend my after-dinner hours stitching or watching football or writing or shooting Imperial Stormtroopers or... anything.

No, it's not an "I'm not worth the effort" mindset; it's just that I'm lazy when I'm by myself.  Yes, I certainly think I'm deserving of a great meal whether or not I'm with company.  And I definitely don't mind eating out by myself; in fact, after many years of attending conferences, dining solo in a nice restaurant is something I actively look forward to†.

Any suggestions on busting out of my rut?  Something simple, that doesn't require using every knife or skillet I own, that won't force me to spend 30+ minutes just on the cutting board (and I'm decently fast with a chef's knife, though I'm no Jacques Pepin), that uses mostly fresh ingredients rather than pre-packaged crap, that won't create oceans of leftovers, and that will make me feel good?

And did I mention how I feel about washing the dishes?



* Do not do this.  He's done it twice and does not recommend it.

** No flavor packet, though.  They're awful, and have you seen how much sodium is in there?

*** Birds in a Nest, or, now that I've figured out how to flip them without making a frightening mess, over easy.

**** Called, reasonably enough, The Pleasures of Cooking for One.  It's a great read no matter how many people you usually cook for.  Never heard of Judith Jones?  I'll bet you know her work!  She's the cookbook editor for Alfred A. Knopf, and was the one who discovered and published Julia Child and Madhur Jaffrey and James Beard and Marion Cunningham and Lidia Bastianich and Jacques Pepin and...  Her memoir, The Tenth Muse: My Life in Food is a terrific read, too.

† Alas, dining options are rather slim around here unless you're really into the "meat and three" concept.  And I had a Fuddrucker's burger for lunch.  That's enough eating out for today, and possibly tomorrow and the day after.

I Can See My House From Heeeeere...

If I drive north just a mile or two from our house, I can see the mountains.  They lurk there, just above the horizon, taunting me, although some days I can't see them at all.  But this weekend was the first extended period of Autumn-like weather we've had (we had one or two days of 55-degree temps a couple of weeks ago, but then it went right back up to 90.  Alas.), and we were determined to enjoy the heck out of it.  Which meant getting into those mountains.

In less than an hour's easy drive, we had left I-26, and were working our way up Route 9 through some lovely forests, when the barest hint of water appeared before us.  And then we went over a hill and could see a bright blue slice of Lake Lure below us.  We skirted it for a few miles, getting the occasional view through the kudzu, and then left the lake (to be explored later) and continued up Hickory Nut Gorge towards the little town of Chimney Rock (a few places to eat and some gift shops), and our goal, Chimney Rock State Park.

Only a state park for about 4 years so far, the area was set aside as a preserve by the three Morse brothers back at the beginning of the 20th century.  They fell in love with the spectacular rock formations (reasonably so), and built trails and staircases up to their favorite scenic viewpoints.

The beginning of up.

The trails now include over 1000 steps, although there is an elevator up to the chimney itself*.  In addition to the chimney, there's also a moonshiner's cave, Pulpit Rock (also temporarily closed), the Opera Box, and the summit itself, Exclamation Point.

We're going up there.  Looks windy, doesn't it?

It's one of those places where the views are so numerous and gorgeous that you wind up taking the same picture over and over again because every corner you turn produces a slightly different vista, and you don't want to forget any of them.

Like this.

After you've hauled yourself up to the top of the Chimney and are feeling pretty good about yourself, and have managed not to get blown off by the wind, and have enjoyed the view as much as you can, you then turn around and see...

More stairs.  And the Opera Box, in the lower right.

...that there's more Up to go.  Which is ok, because you've had a nice break**.  And you can see just a hint of the view up the other end of the valley, which you really don't want to miss.  So onwards you go.  And it's totally worth it, because (if you can avoid having your hat blown off) you get this:

Looking up Hickory Nut Gorge.  There's a beautiful river down there.

And this:

The village of Chimney Rock.

And, best yet, this:

Chimney Rock itself.

Once you make it back down and get your legs to stop complaining, there's also a nice, relatively level trail out to Hickory Nut Falls.  It was a little trickle-y this time, but I'd love to go after a good rain and see what it's like then.

The Falls.  Not spectacular at the moment, but lots of potential.

Another cool thing about the park is that they allow dogs, so if yours is well-behaved and on a leash, he or she is more than welcome to climb around with you.  We saw all shapes and sizes, from a very enthusiastic German Shepherd mix, to a quickly tiring bulldog puppy, to a flock of pugs***.  And not a bark to be heard - amazing!  The park is also, apparently, a great place for bird-watching, if you're into that sort of thing, and they have a rock-climbing school that gives lessons on site.  I'm not sure I want to scale the Chimney in a roaring gale (though I'm told that Santa Claus does it in December), but a class or two would be really, really fun.

After we'd hiked everything we wanted to hike, we exited the valley in the opposite direction, heading towards Asheville on the road that winds along the river.  The leaves are starting to turn gold up there, and downtown Asheville definitely felt like autumn; I needed my jacket.  This summer weather has been very nice, but enough!  I'm ready to rake leaves, eat some apples, and get my sweaters out of storage!

Nature!

* Alas for those who would use it, it's being replaced this year, so if you don't feel inclined towards a serious leg workout, you might want to wait a few months until it's back up and running.

** You forget, however, that going up, as painful as it may be, is nothing compared to coming back down.  My calves quivered like crazy for an hour afterwards, and my knees reminded me for the next few hours that however young I may usually feel, 40 is approaching.

*** What's the collective noun for a bunch of pugs?  A herd?  Bevy?  Passel?  Waggle?