Once, I ate apples from a king’s small orchard; it stood in autumnal chills, fragrant with river-scent, and the smell of fallen leaves, fallen fruit, and strange little bugs with an appetite for fruit. Once, I gathered apples from a king’s small orchard with a friend from Brazil. It doesn’t get too cold in Brazil, and so the friend whose company I enjoyed, didn’t enjoy the weather. It was too cold: beaches and women in bikinis were too far away. We were well within the grips of autumn in a landlocked country: beaches and women in bikinis were those things you saw in magazines or on television. We gathered apples with intent to stew them and to make applesauce: the thicker, darker kind that you spread on bread. It’s winter in Chicago, now, much colder than autumn in a king’s diminutive orchard: not even an orchard, really, just a splinter of land where two rivers came together. The castle ramparts stood behind us as we gathered apples. Now, those castle ramparts stand far, far away…in another world. I’m sure that—now—the scaffolding is gone and all of the minor repairs and touchups are completed. Castles need a lot of work, especially at the onset of seasonal changes. They’re cold and drafty things, and in the Czech Republic, a country friendly to mold, they take on a strange, predatory patina. There is mold in Chicago; it grows on bread left too long in a cupboard; it’s fuzzy, black mold, or green mold. It isn’t predatory. There are apples in Chicago. They’re edible. You can make sauce with them, for spreading on bread. You can bite into them and get a chin-full of juice, or maybe a fragment of appleskin stuck between your teeth. You can be assured that they’re fresh, that they are uniform in size. You can refrigerate them for an hour before eating, just for that extra crunch, that cool explosion of pulpy sweetness. I like Chicago apples (though they’re most assuredly grown in places like Valparaiso, Indiana) but they aren’t gnarled and of dubious, royal pedigree. Small things aren’t found, eating them as they lie in carpets on damp, grassy ground. They sit, often, in baskets and bowls on kitchen tables, consumed at breakfast or as snacks. They’re good apples: not very pretentious, despite their buffed shine. Some do wear mottles and distortions, and these—I am led to understand—indicate their superior sweetness. I like apples. I like making apple-spread: the dark brown kind, rich with cinnamon. I haven’t made any. Yet. It takes some doing, you know, and there are other things to do in Chicago. I like the fact, however, that—once—I made apple spread (for warm bread) with a Brazilian guy who continually blew into his cupped hands to keep them warm. I thought of that, as I saw these apples, sitting on Kate’s (KateBlack10’s) kitchen table, not too far from her rockin’ dinner plates. (Honestly, Kate has some of the coolest dinner plates I’ve ever seen. Not those boring white ones as thin as anemic tortillas. These are bright red with a vaguely mottled glaze. They look ancient, Asian; something Zen. I like them. I should find out where she bought them.) I took this photo, yesterday—somewhere between a cigarette break and a viewing of The Departed. I saw that film in Český Krumlov—not far from where I’d gathered apples. I didn’t realize that as in Krumlov, I didn’t see the film from the beginning. It was funny that I saw this movie, with Kate and with Corey, with Steve, and with Molly—the ever busy dog—and experienced an odd recall of time in a hostel built from the gate-house of an exquisite little medieval town. There were apples then, and there were apples yesterday. That was (and is) a very good thing. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope that you’ve all had a great weekend and are bound to have a great week.