How You Like Them Apples?

I guess I'm a drunk.

Every beautiful, sunny, seventy degree Saturday morning (is 12:26 still morning?), I wake up, I think, "God, this is a great day for some outdoor drinking."

What many people apparently say is, "God, this is a great day for some apple picking."

Maybe it's because I hate the fall and all that the fall brings (Tom Brady, start of school, Halloween). Maybe it's because I could never climb trees like the other kids in my neighborhood. Maybe it's because I don't have kids. Maybe it's because I hate "doing stuff" on a Saturday or Sunday. Maybe it's because I hate Route 2. Maybe it's all of the above.

But I really, REALLY hate apple picking.

I'm not sure what it is that people like about apple picking. I understand that if you have children it might be something to do to kill a Saturday. But why would I, a childless 33 year old dude, go apple picking? What is in it for me?

Think about it.....

I wake up on a Saturday morning, likely hung over or more likely, still drunk. I get in my car and drive 45 minutes west to Littleton or Ayer. All the while, I think about when I USED TO drive on Route 2..... When I was young, cool (flannels, white hats, Doc Martins, and tapered jeans were cool) and headed to the greatest place on Earth, Amherst.

After driving through 27 rotaries and stopping for a pee break at the classy Piccadilly Pub, I arrive at a giant parking lot filled with eager pickers of something that you have absolutely no need to buy in bulk ("Hey, lets get 34 pounds of something that goes bad in seven days!"). I manage to avoid running over the fifty kids dancing around the lot. Then I wait in a giant line to pay $16 for a bag that looks significantly smaller than the one I used to watch my parents pay for as a kid. I then jump on a tractor (who wants to ride a tractor? Plus, can't you get syphilis from that?) to be brought to an orchard that has been picked through a billion times over. I spy some good apples up high, but I can't climb the tree because the apple orchard Nazi yells at me when I do. So I have to get on another tractor and ride to another barren orchard.

Nine tractor rides and seventeen appleless apple trees later, I find an orchard of Cortlands, which apparently, are good for baking. I'm now so irritated and tired (plus, I ripped my designer jeans as I awkwardly and uncoordinately tried to scale one of the appleless trees) that I fill my back full of said Cortlands.

I then ride the tractor- after watching two full tractors pass by- back to the gift shop which is essentially The Central Mass Version Of Every Gift Shop In Yarmouth. Inside, I can find $15 apple pies (didn't I just pick those goddamn apples so that I could make my very own pie?), fudge (I wonder if it's as good as Cape Fudge?), Maple Candy in the shape of Johnny Appleseed (apples seem to be the theme here), and warm apple doughnuts, which actually look good.

So I go to get said warm apple doughnut because I'm starved from walking around like Kane in Kung Fu all day (plus, I didn't get the Grilled Chicken Caesar at the Piccadilly) and they are sold out. They offer me a candy apple at $6, but the fillings that had to be replaced the last time I ate a candy apple tell me to pass on that snack. So I instead just ask for a water. They are also sold out of water. This is a good move at a place where you have to walk the equivalent of a 10K just to find apples. The young girl informs me I can grab a drink from the hose, which is kind. I'm so glad they decided to stock up on water during the most seasonably warm fall we've had in 35 years.

So I get back in my car, parched and hungry, and weave through downtown Groton to get back to Route 2, which of course, is trafficky. Why is Route 2 trafficky? I don't really know. But what I do know is that one of the seven random lights that are placed on a major highway turns yellow as I am cruising home at 75. The guy in front of me stops and that forces me to slam on my breaks and what happens? My apples fall out of the bag. Now I have a $16 bag of bruised apples and a ripped pair of Sevens.

I then take my apples that have more dings than one of my little sisters cars (you should see her insurance) and whip up a nice apple crisp. It takes me four hours to cut up the apples, but I am happy because apple crisp has brown sugar cinnamon. It is also a vehicle for the Brighams Vanilla Ice Cream, because who doesn't like a nice scoop of vanilla on their hot apple crisp? I bake the crisp, dump on the ice cream and begin to eat. The brown sugar- crisped to perfection- and the Brighams are both delicious and I eat them right up. But I find myself not liking something..... THE COOKED APPLES!!!!!! They are all pushed to the side of my plate and I am now eating a snack called Brighams Vanilla With Burnt Brown Sugar On It. Glad I drove halfway across the state for that when any supermarket could have provided me with all the ingredients I need for that.

So, why did I go apple picking? I'm not sure, but I guess it was so I could "get out and enjoy the weather." Or maybe it was so I would NOT waste away a Saturday watching Candlepin Bowling and eating nacho chips and con queso. But let me tell you this..... breaking down that 7/10 split certainly would have been better than wandering around an appleless apple orchard with my mouth blistering from a lack of water.

So on the next beautiful, sunny, seventy degree October Saturday, I'm going to Falmouth to play some mini golf. Or maybe Storyland. Or maybe I'll ride my bike on the Minuteman Bike Path. Or maybe I'll rent a kayak. Or maybe I'll play some tennis.

Actually, you know what? I think I'm just going to go sit on the roof deck at Icarus and crush Cosmos. It's what I seem to be best at. Further, it's what I seem to like do best on a sunny Saturday.

I guess I'm a drunk. Wait a minute. Didn't I already know that?