Apples, Apples, Apples!

Bright and early, we hopped into Aunt E's. The other day, we helped her wash, sterilize and lay out bottles, pans, ladles, pots, everything required to make jam and applesauce for Christmas. Don't look at me. Do I look like I know how to make jam? No way. We were going to be kitchen elves. Secretly thankful that she wasn't baking, and that she had a large spacious kitchen with huge windows. Otherwise, that smell of dough and butter baking in the oven would be nauseating and I would eventually throw up as though seasick.

There were still apples ripening on the trees. But snow had arrived. So these were the last of the batch. For cooking. Not for eating. Bramley or something. I forgot. Merrily we got to the task. "Don't pick all the apples. Leave some for the birds now." Okaaaay. Left the topmost branches untouched. Hahahah. I couldn't reach them anyway! Not that many trees. Enough to make the garden pretty. Apple trees usually hang around for 30-odd years. Aunt E planted them about a decade or so back. She loves apples. It would be poetic if the trees could accompany her on this last lap of life's journey.

Chatted and bantered as we went about twisting the fruit off the branches. On the patio, Aunt E, all wrapped up with a heater and thermos of hot tea next to her, sat comfortably, watched us and joined in the conversation whenever she felt like it. Filled up the baskets in less than 45 minutes. Then we went back in to morph into kitchen elves to do whatever she dictated necessary to the successful making of magic Christmas potions. Aunt E likes her desserts and jams sweet. Hmmmph. Whatever volume of sugar she told me to put into the bubbling pots, I daringly decreased them by 25%. Sneaky. Shhhhhh. Don't tell.

By the time dinner rolled around, bottles were sealed and put away in the cold to keep fresh till the festivities next week. Stole bites of those apples. Woah, they were really tart. Worse than sour oranges. Eeeeps. Doused a couple of slices with honey to take the edge off. No wonder these weren't 'eating apples'. We were hungry and ready to eat. The pumpkin and leek soup, hummus, pita bread, grilled courgettes, and roast chicken were ready. The man took care of that. Heh. And nope, I don't remember anything about making jam. Following instructions doesn't mean I retain them in my head. :P

Late into the night, we tucked Aunt E to bed, turned off the lights, locked up and went home. Got a bit emotional on the way back. In the quiet cold of the night, I was well aware that although the conscious brain filtered out the techniques to bake/cook, the subconscious made memories. There aren't written recipes. Perhaps one day, when I close my eyes, I might simply, remember how to make a bottle of jam and applesauce from those memories.