The Excruciating Delight That Is Modern Day Apple-Picking
The first sign of trouble at the apple orchard wasn’t the state troopers directing traffic, the guy in the neon vest sending us to park in a far-off field or the enormous battalion of portable toilets. It was the woman in the crowd by the entrance, leaning on a rustic fence post, barfing up a whole lot of apples. If Hieronymus Bosch went apple picking, this would be his spot.
I don’t remember when apple picking turned into such an unleashed expression of autumnal id. Are we overindulging our manic search for connection in an orchard of earthly delights? Could we be making up for all our screen time by commanding group bonding between the Idareds and the Golden Delicious? Breathe deep, we say. Isn’t the air crisp?
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