Tree Down!

The apple tree in the backyard came down this afternoon. I understand the need to have it cut, because it was old and sick and the rot was slowly making its way down through the trunk. But I have a lot of memories of climbing that tree when I was little, or swinging on the tire swing hung from the strongest branch, and losing a fair number of balls and Frisbees and badminton shuttlecocks into the leaves.

This is what’s left of the tree:




The apples were generic New England glorified crabapples. Small, tart, kind of bitter, and usually with a worm or two wending its way through the interior. Which means, of course, that they were perfect for sauces and pies. Generally speaking, the best cooking apples are the ones that are almost too strong to eat raw. Something very tart (like a Tompkins King or a Northern Spy) and bitter (like a Brown Snout or a Sheepsnose variety) holds it flavor well when cooked up, leaving a pie that you know was made from apples. The complex sugars in the fruit are broken down, and the simple sugars gently caramelize, helping to balance out the acid content of those older varieties.

Of course, sometimes you want an apple that will hold its shape as much as you want the best flavor. Maybe you’re making a tart, or coring the fruit and stuffing them with nuts and bread and raisins and maple syrup before slowly cooking them in a 300 degree oven. I’m hungry right now, in case you couldn’t tell. For those duties, find yourself a nice bushel of Macs or Cortlands. They’ll hold their shape when they’re heated, and they’re not shabby in the taste department either.

Even the much-maligned Red Delicious has a role in the kitchen. No, seriously. That same apple that everyone loves to hate because it’s mealy and bred for perfection and has an insipid flavor… it’s a useful critter. Yes, I know it’s the apple equivalent of the bleach-blonde model with an IQ approaching her bra size. Any self-respecting pie maker must turn his nose up and snort derisively when somebody mentions the name “Red Delicious”. Right?

Nope.

There are two reasons to legitimately have Red Delicious (RD) in the kitchen. The pomologists in the audience already know the first one: The RD was not always grown in its current form. Originally, of course, it lived up to its name by being a damn good eating apple. Those original strains of RD can be found all over the East Coast, and probably elsewhere also, and they’re really worth trying if you find them somewhere.

The second reason applies to the modern “Baywatch” variety of RD. As crappy an eating apple as it is (and yep, it’s still crappy), the modern RD has replaced the traditional apple acids and tannins with sugars and aromatics. So the savvy pie baker (ask your great-great-grandmother at your next séance) will always cut in a couple of RDs, chopped into tiny bits, to sweeten the pie and make it smell fantastic, which is smart considering how closely our sense of taste is related to our sense of smell. No need for sugar in the filling, and certainly no vanilla, but a pair of Red Delicious instead.

Damn, I think I’ve developed a craving.

Things Your Child Will Do.

One of my co-workers in the cider making business was questioned by a group of mothers today. Specifically, they wanted to know why the Cayuga Wine Trail, as a rule, does not allow bus tours of college students into the various wineries and the solo cidery. Those perfectly raised, Ivy-League educated young ladies and gentlemen? Ahem. Surely, they can’t be the same as those students who show up on the buses at noon having brought a keg aboard at 10am with two hours of steady drinking under their belts. Or those smartly dressed young men who casually urinate onto the wheel of a family’s minivan in the parking lot. Or those charming young women who rut like animals in the unmown grass on the north side of the building, assuming that nobody can see them.

No, surely those can’t be your children.

Oi.

Here, then, is my short list garnered from my extensive experience on the (relatively) sober side of the bar, holding the attention and the confidence of innumerable students, of The Things Your Child Will Do:

You child will drink in college. And like it.

Your daughter will lie underneath some immature jerk-ass and have sex with him. And she will like it.

Your son will weigh down on top of some slut and have sex with her. And he will like it.

You child will have friends who casually use drugs that would land them in prison for years. Your kid will try some. And like it.

Your child will see somebody on a motorcycle and feel jealous.

Your child will listen to somebody whose political or social views you find repulsive. And they will think, “Huh, that makes sense”.

Your child will have several friends who drive drunk on a weekly basis. And your kid will stay friends with those people.

Your child will drive drunk. And do it again a week later.

Your child will go into a tattoo shop with a friend and feel jealous.

Your child will decide to become tattooed. And like it.

Your child will switch majors. Their new major will likely make them very, very poor.

You child will drink cheap beer.

Your child will have sexual fantasies about someone of another race.

Your child will have sexual fantasies in class.

Your child will listen to rap music. And like it.

Your child will listen to classical music. And like it.

Your child will consider, somberly and seriously, joining the military. And maybe join.

Your child will listen to the same music you listened to when you were their age.

Your child will fall in love. And love it.

Your son will find several people for whom he would proudly die.

Your daughter will find several men who would proudly die for her.

Your son will contemplate murder. And be okay with it.

Your daughter will contemplate murder to save her children. And be okay with it.

Your child, son or daughter, will seriously consider having children.
Your child will consider suicide. And not tell anyone.

Your child’s friend will commit suicide. And your child will think, “if only they had told me…”.

Your child, if in college, will look at somebody who did not go to college and feel jealous.

Your child, if not in college, will look at somebody who did go and feel jealous.

Your child will make bad decisions. And regret them.

Your child will make hard decisions. And stand by them.

Your child will come home on break and realize that you, too, have sex.

Your child will say something and think, “I sound like my parents…”.

Your child will say something and you will think, “they sound like me…”.

Your child will put on weight.

Your child will fail a test. And maybe a class.

Your child will ask you for advice. And follow it.

Your child will understand some hard decision you have made. And brutally defend you for it.

Your child will learn to respect some of your hard choices. And not tell you.

Your child will learn to despise some of your hard choices. And not tell you.

Your child will despise some of you. And respect you.

Your child will grow up. And realize it.

Your child will support you.

Your child will become an adult. And you will be rightfully proud.

Your child will become an adult. And they will rightfully thank you.

Thank you, mom.
Thank you, dad.

Tinytown Traffic Ticket

A couple of months ago I was pulled over for the first time (I know, I’m such a sheltered kid) and was cited for the despicable crime of having a non-functioning taillight. To be fair, I did know that something in the taillight assembly was a bit cocked, and I was putting off fixing the problem because of, well, laziness, and the fact that Volvo parts are expensive. What I didn’t expect was to be pulled over by a kid I’ve known since middle school, who now looks like your average 12 year old police officer. The conversation went something like this:

Officer Middle School: “Can I see your license and regist… oh, hi!”
Retaxis: “Holy crap! You’re a cop?”
Officer MS: “I get that a lot.”

It was, to be honest, a little surreal. A kid who probably gets carded at R-rated movies, wearing a Glock 17 and chunky Kevlar vest, and giving me a $50 ticket.

In any case, going to see the DA during his office hours was educational. The cops running security for the building were genuinely helpful, sending me off with a “third floor, turn right, second office down the corridor. Hope you get the ticket dismissed!” That was a touch that I didn’t expect. Even on duty, cops are human.

I had to wait in line for a half hour, behind a frat brother holding a noise violation, and a lawyer for three others who had received the same citation. See, a few months ago the Tinytown city council decided that they wanted to start enforcing the city noise ordinances for everybody, instead of letting the Ivy Leaguers have their fun and only getting involved for the more serious transgressions. As a result, the city and college police forces have been writing tickets by the hundreds, thoroughly clogging the city court system. This, of course, is a pain in the ass for everyone else, and it generates a ton of revenue.

Going before a judge, as I learned from the lawyer with whom I chatted, would invariably net you the maximum fine, which is $500 for a first offense and $750 for a second. That’s rent money by college kid standards. Going to the DA or the Assistant DA will probably get you down to the $200 to $350 range, unless the officer who wrote you the ticket says something nice. That will get you the minimum $100 fine.

The officers who show up at parties and write the piss-ant tickets have to write reports on everything that happened during the incident, which gets files into the city database and is accessible by the DA staff. The cops have to write up a narrative of the incident, including all sorts of minor details about the people at the party and their behavior. So here’s where the advice comes in:

If a cop shows up on your doorstep with a noise complaint, be very nice to him. Tell everyone to shut up, and keep the belligerent drunks away from the guys in uniform. Then cooperate, which means following the cops’ directions as if you were sober and in a good mood.

That’s it.

Can you figure out why this works? Because virtually every time the police show up, somebody does something stupid. Either somebody starts making fun of them, or somebody pees on the cruiser, or your stumpy wrestling buddy you call “Bucket” decides that he’s going to fight that sonofabitchholdmybeer. So, when you walk out onto the porch to meet them (you do know better than to invite them inside, right?) and nobody loses their head, the cops put that into the report.

No matter how you cut it, ten minutes of being civil to a pair of cops will save you $200 to $500. You know it’s a BS citation, and so do they.

That’s my legal advice for the day.

Oh, and the Tinytown ADA is a man who takes himself entirely too seriously. I had college professors like that, and it drove me nuts. The DA, on the other hand, is an actually living human with a working brain and heart. Seriously. Talk to him if you can.




In case you were wondering, the ticket was dismissed by the DA. I’m going to have a celebratory drink.