It used to be that apples were grown locally on small farms, and when the fall came, you’d go out and pick them into a basket, ripe right off the tree, the farmer weighing the deliciousness at the gate, a handshake, a smile. He knew your name, you knew his, hey, Farmer Jackson, how’s the wife? Kids doing alright?
Or you had your own tree, you watched it grow from blossoms to apples to falling leaves and winter’s frost and back again.
Now, in the store, apples shipped from around the world, the whole year long.
I taste one.
Gross.