Me, Myself and Mommy

In case there has ever been any confusion, let me make this clear. My husband is not a country boy. This Thanksgiving was a complete culture shock for him. When he walked out of our bedroom dressed in his church clothes, I chuckled and sent him back to go for something far more casual. The fact that people missed the big meal because they were huntin’ (no G – just huntin’) was a whole new concept for him to grasp. Little did he know a full-blown country bumpkin adventure had just begun.

Every year for Thanksgiving, my Dad’s family gets together to make apple butter. The family meets up out in the middle of way past no where at a small bible camp that they are involved in. Folks (yes, folks) come from Ohio, next door, Tennessee and many places in between for  this barn raising type event. Actually, I think it would take less people to raise a barn.

After everyone filled their tummies with turkey, taters (yes, taters), stuffing balls, and what not, the apple butter making commenced.

It all started with an apple.

The apples were cored and peeled.

The bits of peel that were missed by the peeler were removed by hand.

The apples were quartered and checked for hard spots.

Once quartered, the apples were washed.

By the time we were done peeling, coring, quartering and washing, we had three full trashcans of apples.

As the evening progressed, Steve was beginning to relax and participate in the apple butter making. He was almost inoculated to the Southern accents, flannel shirts and camouflage hats. However, Cowboy Adam strolled in wearing a cowboy hat, and we were back at square one.

Day two of apple butter began at 4am. City Slicker Steve nor I were up at 4am. We were not up at 7am either, or 8am. Anyhow, at 4am, a group of folks (yes, folks) got up to build fires and cook the apples.

The apples cooked in large kettles for what felt like an eternity.

While the apples were cooking, lids were prepared.

Jars were lined up.

Lots and Lots of Jars.

Children Played.

The apples cooked.

Finally, at 2:30pm the apples were ready for sugar.

Lots and lots of sugar.

And more sugar.

Once the sugar was added, the apples had to cook for another hour.

It was at this point in the day that I decided that making apple butter is much like waiting on a baby to be born. When you first arrive at the hospital, there is a lot going on and everyone is excited (building the fire). Then, you settle into a long wait (the cooking). You wait for hours and hours and hours (more cooking). Then, finally, it is time to push (adding the sugar), but the baby doesn’t come for another hour (more cooking).

Children played.

FINALLY! It was time. The spices were added just before the apples were taken off the fire (the baby arrives).

This was when all of the hustle and bustle started (everyone wants to hold the baby, and count all the fingers and toes).

The apple butter was poured into a giant funnel type contraption. No idea what it was called.

The jars were filled one by one.

Lids were tightly screwed on, and the jars were wiped down (cleaning the goo off the baby).

The bottom of the kettle was scraped clean. Not an ounce of the harvest was wasted.

The jars of apple butter were lined up on a table to cool off.

Lots and lots of apple butter. 105ish pints and 150ish quarts.

Just when Steve thought he was free to leave the country (the hospital) and return to the safety of his home, I had to break the news to him. We couldn’t leave  with our apple butter (baby) until all of the lids had sealed with a pop (the discharge papers were signed).

To think it all started just over 24 hours ago with an apple (a fetus).

This entry was posted on Monday, November 30th, 2009 at 12:19 am and is filed under Me, Myself. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.