The brilliance has waned from the tree canopies and the vast majority of the leaves have drifted into heaping, crunchy piles on the lawns, sidewalks and streets. Nighttime falls sooner these days, and the evenings reveal each puff of breath, leading the kids to forage for their mittens in the winter accessory basket.
But, clinging onto this majestic season until the last leaf has forfeited hold onto its branch, I'm intent on soaking up the last autumnal traditions. So when a family from the school my children attend opened their home in the country for a fall festival, I was downright mirthful.
It was a beautiful fall day – crisp, autumn air and sunny. This celebration involved not only a hayride through the woods, a scrumptious potluck and a mountain of leaves for the kids to tumble around in, but also old fashioned cider pressing. This was a first for our family, but a fun new tradition, to be sure!
Two large bins heaped full of Red Baron apples awaited. Old apple cider presses stood at the ready. How would these work, exactly? Would the kids be interested in this? The operation looked suspiciously like hard work. Hmmm.
But, clinging onto this majestic season until the last leaf has forfeited hold onto its branch, I'm intent on soaking up the last autumnal traditions. So when a family from the school my children attend opened their home in the country for a fall festival, I was downright mirthful.
It was a beautiful fall day – crisp, autumn air and sunny. This celebration involved not only a hayride through the woods, a scrumptious potluck and a mountain of leaves for the kids to tumble around in, but also old fashioned cider pressing. This was a first for our family, but a fun new tradition, to be sure!
Two large bins heaped full of Red Baron apples awaited. Old apple cider presses stood at the ready. How would these work, exactly? Would the kids be interested in this? The operation looked suspiciously like hard work. Hmmm.
My husband, the brave one who is always up for trying something new, stepped right up to the hand crank. Apples were poured into the hopper at the top of the apparatus and soon the fun began. As he cranked, the apples were ground up into a pulp-like consistency which fell below to a small, wooden, barrel-looking tub. It looked like a fun way to expel any aggression, grinding away and mashing up those apples, and so the kids soon wanted in on this lark.
Once the tub was full, a cover was placed at the top, which was then screwed down, pressing the apple pulp and squeezing out the juice into a catch pan. Fresh apple cider! Voilà!
Once the tub was full, a cover was placed at the top, which was then screwed down, pressing the apple pulp and squeezing out the juice into a catch pan. Fresh apple cider! Voilà!
The kids were mesmerized. Surely, apple cider comes from the grocery store! What’s all this business, they asked. These discussions always lead into a conversation about “back in the olden days” and whether that timeframe was during my childhood or their grandparents’. I fear what they would think of my age if I ever took them to grind flour or hollow out a canoe from a log.
Taking breaks from the apple press, the kids clambered onto the tire swing, rolled in the leaves, and explored the wooded ravine behind the house. Parents continued with the apple pressing, laughing and chatting over hot, mulled cider.
After supper, as evening fell, the kids snuggled into our laps amid the hay bales arranged on the wagon hitched behind the tractor that pulled us through the harvested cornfields and snaked us through the woods.
We wrapped up the night around the bonfire, discussing the many gallons of apple cider we produced earlier that afternoon, and how this would certainly make for a special treat for Thanksgiving.
Yes, the grocery store still sells apple cider, and yes, it’s a lot less work to buy a gallon. But I’ve always been drawn to the old fashioned way of doing things, whether it’s canning jars upon jars of jams and sauces or hand-dipping candles. It’s a bit of history. It hearkens back to a slower, less-hectic time, and affords me a new appreciation for my forefathers and –mothers. And many times, these old ways of doing things bring people together – just as they did years ago.
Amid the cool weather and last breath of fall colors, this was the best cider I’ve ever tasted in my life. I can’t wait for this day next year. A perfect ending to a perfect fall.
After supper, as evening fell, the kids snuggled into our laps amid the hay bales arranged on the wagon hitched behind the tractor that pulled us through the harvested cornfields and snaked us through the woods.
We wrapped up the night around the bonfire, discussing the many gallons of apple cider we produced earlier that afternoon, and how this would certainly make for a special treat for Thanksgiving.
Yes, the grocery store still sells apple cider, and yes, it’s a lot less work to buy a gallon. But I’ve always been drawn to the old fashioned way of doing things, whether it’s canning jars upon jars of jams and sauces or hand-dipping candles. It’s a bit of history. It hearkens back to a slower, less-hectic time, and affords me a new appreciation for my forefathers and –mothers. And many times, these old ways of doing things bring people together – just as they did years ago.
Amid the cool weather and last breath of fall colors, this was the best cider I’ve ever tasted in my life. I can’t wait for this day next year. A perfect ending to a perfect fall.
