A birthday treat for the two of us. I have a rare golden weekend (what most of the American workforce just calls "weekend") away from the hospital, so after stopping by the library to exchange a few books, Jane and I drive 30 minutes west of the city to a farm in Howard County, listening to election-related podcasts along the way. At the Larriland Farm in Woodbine, the gravel-and-dirt parking lot is jam-packed, and the harvest season's festivities are underway. Toddlers dressed in Halloween costumes run this way and that, while their siblings pick beets and carve pumpkins and pose with the dirty-brown llama in the pen behind the barn. We stop in the converted barnhouse and gift shop, picking up gummy apple treats and homemade applesauce (for me), and a tall jar of barley honey and a honey dipper (for Jane, who makes tea after dinner most nights). After chowing down on several hot dogs, Jane and I drive the dirt path around the farm, past fields of spinach and turnips, and park beside the apple orchards where over a dozen varieties of apple are harvested here every fall. This week, the Ida Reds, sitting in their tall branches, are at the peak of ripeness - tart, firm-fleshed apples that lend themselves well to baking and stewing. I pick half a dozen and make baked buttered apples that night, digging out the cores and filling them with barley honey. Jane fills a bag with the ludicrously plump and sweet Mutsu variety - yellow-green apples originally grown in the wintry northlands of Japan. We treat ourselves to one of these before leaving the orchard, and are effusive in our praise for this lovely and commendable fruit.
