apples to apples, or, why this post doesn't have pictures of pie.

Oh technology, how you've failed me again. Or is nature the root of my distress?

This Saturday, the man, a couple of friends, and their adorable three-month-old baby and I drove from LA to Oak Glen, CA to have a lovely pseudo-Midwestern autumn day of apple picking. It seemed close to the end of prime-picking season, so we checked websites and called to make sure the orchards were open. Still selling? Yep. Baby buckled in? Check. Little cooler full of snacks? Got it.

Anyway, what the website and recorded messages failed to tell us was that the entire Southern California apple crop had been lost in an early freeze in September. Such a letdown! I had started to pout when the man scooted up behind me. "I feel so bad for the guy," he said. "All of his apples died. We should at least buy something from him..."

He disappeared into the crafty-kitsch shop; you know, the one filled with a mix of lace-trimmed kitchen linens, local self-published cookbooks, and little jars of preserves and sandwich spreads. Carmel apples (from fruit "imported" from Central California), little jars of honey and crazy-expensive gallon of pressed cider soon emerged, neatly packed in white paper bags with red tissue, held by a pleased-looking man.

I forced a smile but felt slighted. Not only was I disappointed as my dreams of pork chops and fresh apple sauce went to the freezer, but I also smelled bruised fruit. Who should I blame for my lack of freshly-plucked, shiny-crisp apples? Could I be smug that we still supported the farmer and his crafty shop, or just feel deceived by the his dishonesty about climate change?

I'll get back to you after I'm finished typing my ventings and eating my waxy supermarket apple thankyouverymuch.