The strong scent of our freshly picked apples filled the car. Apples toppled over the sides of the bags, with each turn home, down the country road. I sat patiently in the backseat, glancing down at the pumpkin whoopie pie that lay next to me on the console. It had the perfect amount of whipped filling. You could tell it would be perfect. Pushing temptation aside, I sipped farm fresh cider, and crunched away on a sweet juicy apple.
Nothing makes me feel more at home then being on a farm. Growing up, our closest neighbor was ¾ mile away and our house was surrounded on all 4 sides by fields. Two were potato; one, broccoli; one, golden grain. The skies were bright blue this afternoon and temperatures warmed just enough to roll up the sleeves. Time to pick apples…
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