The Saunterer's Apple not even the
saunterer
can eat in the
house.
house.
Thoreau - Excursions and Poems
They are eaten with comparatively little zest,
and have no real _tang_ nor _smack_ to them.
What if some of these wildings are acrid and puckery, genuine
_verjuice_, do they not still belong to the _Pomaceae_, which are
uniformly innocent and kind to our race? I still begrudge them to the
cider-mill. Perhaps they are not fairly ripe yet.
No wonder that these small and high-colored apples are thought to make
the best cider. Loudon quotes from the "Herefordshire Report," that
"apples of a small size are always, if equal in quality, to be
preferred to those of a larger size, in order that the rind and kernel
may bear the greatest proportion to the pulp, which affords the
weakest and most watery juice. " And he says that, "to prove this, Dr.
Symonds, of Hereford, about the year 1800, made one hogshead of cider
entirely from the rinds and cores of apples, and another from the pulp
only, when the first was found of extraordinary strength and flavor,
while the latter was sweet and insipid. "
Evelyn says that the "Red-strake" was the favorite cider-apple in his
day; and he quotes one Dr. Newburg as saying, "In Jersey 'tis a
general observation, as I hear, that the more of red any apple has in
its rind, the more proper it is for this use. Pale-faced apples they
exclude as much as may be from their cider-vat. " This opinion still
prevails.
All apples are good in November. Those which the farmer leaves out as
unsalable and unpalatable to those who frequent the markets are
choicest fruit to the walker. But it is remarkable that the wild apple,
which I praise as so spirited and racy when eaten in the fields or
woods, being brought into the house has frequently a harsh and crabbed
taste.
The Saunterer's Apple not even the saunterer can eat in the
house. The palate rejects it there, as it does haws and acorns, and
demands a tamed one; for there you miss the November air, which is the
sauce it is to be eaten with. Accordingly, when Tityrus, seeing the
lengthening shadows, invites Meliboeus to go home and pass the night
with him, he promises him _mild_ apples and soft chestnuts,--_mitia
poma_, _castaneae molles_. I frequently pluck wild apples of so rich
and spicy a flavor that I wonder all orchardists do not get a scion
from that tree, and I fail not to bring home my pockets full. But
perchance, when I take one out of my desk and taste it in my chamber,
I find it unexpectedly crude,--sour enough to set a squirrel's teeth
on edge and make a jay scream.
These apples have hung in the wind and frost and rain till they have
absorbed the qualities of the weather or season, and thus are highly
_seasoned_, and they _pierce_ and _sting_ and _permeate_ us with their
spirit. They must be eaten in _season_, accordingly,--that is,
out-of-doors.
To appreciate the wild and sharp flavors of these October fruits, it
is necessary that you be breathing the sharp October or November air.
The outdoor air and exercise which the walker gets give a different
tone to his palate, and he craves a fruit which the sedentary would
call harsh and crabbed. They must be eaten in the fields, when your
system is all aglow with exercise, when the frosty weather nips your
fingers, the wind rattles the bare boughs or rustles the few remaining
leaves, and the jay is heard screaming around. What is sour in the
house a bracing walk makes sweet. Some of these apples might be
labeled, "To be eaten in the wind. "
Of course no flavors are thrown away; they are intended for the taste
that is up to them. Some apples have two distinct flavors, and perhaps
one half of them must be eaten in the house, the other outdoors. One
Peter Whitney wrote from Northborough in 1782, for the Proceedings of
the Boston Academy, describing an apple tree in that town "producing
fruit of opposite qualities, part of the same apple being frequently
sour and the other sweet;" also some all sour, and others all sweet,
and this diversity on all parts of the tree.
There is a wild apple on Nawshawtuct Hill in my town which has to me a
peculiarly pleasant bitter tang, not perceived till it is
three-quarters tasted.
and have no real _tang_ nor _smack_ to them.
What if some of these wildings are acrid and puckery, genuine
_verjuice_, do they not still belong to the _Pomaceae_, which are
uniformly innocent and kind to our race? I still begrudge them to the
cider-mill. Perhaps they are not fairly ripe yet.
No wonder that these small and high-colored apples are thought to make
the best cider. Loudon quotes from the "Herefordshire Report," that
"apples of a small size are always, if equal in quality, to be
preferred to those of a larger size, in order that the rind and kernel
may bear the greatest proportion to the pulp, which affords the
weakest and most watery juice. " And he says that, "to prove this, Dr.
Symonds, of Hereford, about the year 1800, made one hogshead of cider
entirely from the rinds and cores of apples, and another from the pulp
only, when the first was found of extraordinary strength and flavor,
while the latter was sweet and insipid. "
Evelyn says that the "Red-strake" was the favorite cider-apple in his
day; and he quotes one Dr. Newburg as saying, "In Jersey 'tis a
general observation, as I hear, that the more of red any apple has in
its rind, the more proper it is for this use. Pale-faced apples they
exclude as much as may be from their cider-vat. " This opinion still
prevails.
All apples are good in November. Those which the farmer leaves out as
unsalable and unpalatable to those who frequent the markets are
choicest fruit to the walker. But it is remarkable that the wild apple,
which I praise as so spirited and racy when eaten in the fields or
woods, being brought into the house has frequently a harsh and crabbed
taste.
The Saunterer's Apple not even the saunterer can eat in the
house. The palate rejects it there, as it does haws and acorns, and
demands a tamed one; for there you miss the November air, which is the
sauce it is to be eaten with. Accordingly, when Tityrus, seeing the
lengthening shadows, invites Meliboeus to go home and pass the night
with him, he promises him _mild_ apples and soft chestnuts,--_mitia
poma_, _castaneae molles_. I frequently pluck wild apples of so rich
and spicy a flavor that I wonder all orchardists do not get a scion
from that tree, and I fail not to bring home my pockets full. But
perchance, when I take one out of my desk and taste it in my chamber,
I find it unexpectedly crude,--sour enough to set a squirrel's teeth
on edge and make a jay scream.
These apples have hung in the wind and frost and rain till they have
absorbed the qualities of the weather or season, and thus are highly
_seasoned_, and they _pierce_ and _sting_ and _permeate_ us with their
spirit. They must be eaten in _season_, accordingly,--that is,
out-of-doors.
To appreciate the wild and sharp flavors of these October fruits, it
is necessary that you be breathing the sharp October or November air.
The outdoor air and exercise which the walker gets give a different
tone to his palate, and he craves a fruit which the sedentary would
call harsh and crabbed. They must be eaten in the fields, when your
system is all aglow with exercise, when the frosty weather nips your
fingers, the wind rattles the bare boughs or rustles the few remaining
leaves, and the jay is heard screaming around. What is sour in the
house a bracing walk makes sweet. Some of these apples might be
labeled, "To be eaten in the wind. "
Of course no flavors are thrown away; they are intended for the taste
that is up to them. Some apples have two distinct flavors, and perhaps
one half of them must be eaten in the house, the other outdoors. One
Peter Whitney wrote from Northborough in 1782, for the Proceedings of
the Boston Academy, describing an apple tree in that town "producing
fruit of opposite qualities, part of the same apple being frequently
sour and the other sweet;" also some all sour, and others all sweet,
and this diversity on all parts of the tree.
There is a wild apple on Nawshawtuct Hill in my town which has to me a
peculiarly pleasant bitter tang, not perceived till it is
three-quarters tasted.
