Snow

We woke up this morning to big, cottony flakes of snow falling on trees that are still shades of red, orange and yellow. So we went to the WNC Farmers Market and bought more apples. Our favorites are Pink Ladies and Cameos (these are Utterlies, I think — as in it’s Utterly ridiculous it’s snowing before Halloween! Speaking of apple names…), which this really nice man and his wife sell in the open sheds behind the fancy stalls with walls and doors and refrigerated cases filled with goats cheese and Amish butter. Oh, Cameo. I know you are not like the old varieties my granddad grafted to the apple trees in their back yard, ones like Early Girl that slip over the tongue like apple syrup. But I love your slightly nubby skin, your crisp bite, your uncertain parentage. I think I would like most anything with those qualities, really.

The gentleman who runs the stall will whip out his pocketknife and cut you off a piece of apple or orange to taste, if you like. He buys them by the box from farmers in Hendersonville, he says. And he’ll keep on slicing the fruit and passing you the little slivers until you taste them all once, twice, three times, even. Then you’ll fill inevitably up your bag, hand him $5 and walk to your car, when he’ll call out, “God bless you.” And even I can’t help but to call back a happy, “You, too!”