Our stay in the northwoods a few weeks ago came to a sad end on the trip home, when we rolled up to a local orchard where we ordinarily pick up some apples. The Sunday we returned, they were, the sign said, sold out.
And I know why. What they grow and sell is Minnesota's finest--honeycrisp, developed right there at the U in 1991, a relative newcomer in the industry. For years I've eaten an apple every morning. There's one, well-gnawed, beside me right now, this one already gone to the core. All year long, an apple is more morning-picker'-upper for me than java. It's the first blame thing I reach for when I stumble into the downstairs darkness. I love apples. I know apples. And there ain't nothing like honeycrisp.
They pop. They do. They explode with tangy juiciness. Every last one of them rejoice in simply being an apple. I swear it. Fujis are fine, I'll admit it, Japan's finest. New Zealand's Galas aren't bad either. But the county fair's finest grow right here the upper Midwest. Nobody else's come close.
Sure, they're expensive. But they're also gone. Fast. You got to get 'em while you can.
Somewhere in a thousand blog posts, I know I've covered this ground before; but this morning it's worth saying again because I just finished one off. Trust me, there ain't no morning joy like a bite of honeycrisp.
Give thanks for something every morning, Garrison Keillor says. Okay. It's early. I'm still a little fuzzy. Outside, the wind's howling. Cold is coming soon.
But this fall morning, I'm thankful, once again, for Minnesota's finest.