My Trip Abroad, In The Midwest

by Jean Marie Moffa
October 17, 2005

It was cool enough for jackets. Blustery clouds cleared, miraculously, by late afternoon. After a long morning of yardwork, we were all ready for an adventure outside of our backyard.

Pay up front first. Picking Ida Reds and Northern Spy. A hayride into the orchard, and there we are, smack in the middle of a day that stops time and stays vivid in memory. A day where nothing matters that isn't joy, abandon, beauty, and thankfulness. Moments flash before me, so keen they border surreal. Sunlight streaming through the branches, nearly blinding me as it reveals the large, ripened fruit. My daughters' delight, chattering at high speed, racing to each new tree, discovering the apples that cry to be picked, and the ones that try to hide. My husband's newfound acrobactic acts, raising our girls to unprecedented heights for the perfect pick. And, of course, the most enchanting taste I've had in recent memory--that first bite, and those that follow, all the way to the core--crisp, sweet, tart and juicy, all at once. So unlike anything labeled 'apples' in the grocery store. And filling a hunger far beyond anything physical.

It could have been an apple orchard in Normandy. Or a vinyard in Champagne. Or lavender fields in Provence. As I breathed in the brilliant blue skies, felt the crisp air against my skin, and fell into the rhythm of rows and shadows, trees and fences, I was transported....

My sister Julie Ann returns to Florence for a visit in November. My friend Alison will be in Paris and Rome in January. It's been far too long since I've satiated my craving for things continental, and I long to go. But while I'm stateside, let me not forget: apple picking in Michigan is pure rapture. And it requires no airfare, no luggage, nor any strenuous travel planning or expense. ($18 will get you the high adventure of picking a bushel, and a season filled with treats from it--by any accounts, a bargain.)

Last Saturday, mere minutes from my own backyard, I was transported. Not simply to memory's balm of lands across the ocean, but, more importantly, into the beauty of fall, itself. Into the soul of family and the blessing of gratitude. Last Saturday, I picked all these, right here, in the heart of the Midwest.

Have you considered finding an orchard near you? I recommend it, without reservation.