How Not To Do the Apple Orchard

Ahhh, the apple orchard. Just the sound of those two words makes me think of crisp leaves, baked goods, hay rides, and a gazillion photo ops for the pint-sized variety of people.

"The one thing I really must do while I'm back in Minnesota is go to an apple orchard," my sister Karen announced.

And so we went.

But we did it all wrong, right from the beginning. We got barked at by a crabby old man for parking where he didn't want us to park. Hello, dude, it's a gravel lot with no lines. I cheerfully placated the man by leaving Karen with Oliver-in-tow to park the next state over, i.e. the overflow lot.

After getting advice about which apples would be best for my crisp, we picked up a basket.

"But if we're picking Harrelsons and Honecrisp, don't we need two baskets?" I asked Karen.

This was the beginning of several conundrums we faced in the first few minutes:

Do the yellowjacket bees stop landing on your face, fingers, and toddler if you just walk super-fast?

Should we have considered bringing a stroller more suitable for being pushed over fallen apples?

Should we have considered socks and non-sandals?

How do we know which apples are ready to be picked?

Karen and I wandered aimlessly down a row of Harrelsons, and in our cluelessness discovered that in fact neither of us had ever really been to an apple orchard, much less picked our own apples. We resigned to picking a few Harrelsons and buying pre-picked Honeycrisps, because the Harrelsons would be used in the apple crisp I'd make the next day. If they were full of worms and beetles, I'd for sure notice them when cutting up three cups' worth for my recipe. Biting into a fruit that has been picked without apple-savvy nor confidence could not promise an absense of creepy crawlies.

At least we'd get the photo ops. I had Karen run ahead with Oliver and deposit him in the middle of the trees, then duck out of the way. I had visions of my little guy stomp-walking between fruit trees, independent and adorable. But he wasn't walking. He squatted. And stayed squatting. What was he doing?

More like, what was I thinking? Apples, apples, were everywhere. He grabbed one off the orchard-foresty floor and put it in his mouth. And here, dear reader, I confess having yet another questionable parenting moment. I let him take a bite. Okay, maybe two. I had no idea if it was rotten. I couldn't be sure that something else wasn't eating it first. But I had to get the picture.

The good news: I didn't find any bugs between Oliver's teeth. The bad news: I took it away after I got my photo op, and he scr-eeeeeeeamed. Okay, so no more orchardy pictures. "Let's try the hayride!" I suggested.

Oh, look at the joy in his face! Oliver clung to me like a barnacle. He hated the hay. Karen struggled to get anything but a half-head shot on our bumpy ride. At one point, the hayride made a stop to let some people off. (As it turns out, the drop-off site is where the best apple-picking takes place. We had headed down the first aisle we could find. Amateurs.) When the tractor stopped for a bit, Karen stood up with the camera, and desperately tried all of her song and dance tricks to get Oliver to even look at the camera. After several minutes, I noticed the tractor driver looking at us with a patient smile.

"Oh, my gosh, are you waiting for us?" I asked.

Why, yes he was. Him and the 40 other peeps waiting in line on the other side of the trees for their turn on the hay ride. Mortified, Karen gushed with apologies and obediently sat back down on a hay bail.

Pretty much the only thing we did right was let Oliver play in a gathering of pumpkins, which he loved. There was no hay, no bees, and no rotten apples to get in his way.

The other thing Karen and I do pretty well is shop. We stocked up on everything we thought we needed, and this is where we made our final mistake of the trip. $35 for apples? Apples, people!

Next year: I'm planting a tree.