Rob leaned back.
“So we get to decide what kind of family we want to be.”
Over the next few days, the apples began falling heavily.
One morning, the grass beneath the branches was covered.
I grabbed the bucket.
But this time, picking them up didn’t feel frustrating.
It felt purposeful.
Every apple from our side went into the bucket.
Then into a large cooler.
When the kids came home from school, they joined me.
Leo carefully searched beneath the swing set and through the flower beds.
Maya carried apples toward the cooler.
Four trips.
Exactly like before.
On her second trip, she smiled.
“Four trips again.”
“Does that bother you?”
She thought about it.
“No. It’s more fun this time.”
Rob’s plan had three parts.
Part one was obvious.
We were going to use the apples.
All of them.
Applesauce.
Apple butter.
Dried apple slices.
Maybe cider.
Then he showed me part two.
He opened his laptop to the website of a local food bank.
He had already registered us for a community donation program.
“We’re giving everything away,” he said.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
I stared at him.
“That is going to be a huge amount of work.”
“I know.”
“And you think this is worth it?”
“Yes.”
Then he showed me part three.
A draft letter.
Addressed to Dale.
We spent the next two weekends turning apples into food.
There is nothing glamorous about processing that many apples.
Peeling.
Coring.
Cooking.
Sterilizing jars.
Checking seals.
Watching temperatures.
Cleaning the kitchen again and again.
The entire house smelled like autumn.
The kids helped wherever they safely could.
Maya peeled.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
But she was determined.
Leo handled the repetitive jobs with the serious focus he brought to anything that had clear instructions.
Rob cooked.
I handled the canning.
By the end of the second weekend, our table was covered.
Seventy-eight jars of applesauce.
Twenty-two jars of apple butter.
Several pounds of dried apple slices.
And three gallons of cider.
Maya stared at everything.
“All of that came from the apples in our yard?”
“Yes,” Rob said.
