Each day there is a modest gain in dried apples. Eight are dried. Five of the dried apples are grabbed by little hands and stuffed through tiny red lips and crunched. Three are left over and set aside for dry canning. A constant erosion. Each can like a wrinkled crimson and gold savings account, to be opened when white snow is drifting on the roads.
Now the farmers markets are apple centric. Apples and squash. Flannel jackets on Saturday morning. Remarks on the fine weather. A balmy 45.
Paper bags of macintosh, marked "1/2 Bushel Mac Seconds $4" grow damp and structurally questionable in the drizzle, and a giant butternut squash hangs by a rope calling attention to a pile of its pale orange siblings. A dollar a squash. They'll keep forever. Nestled in the corner of the mud room next to the bin of apples and beets, they flavor the air with sweet on coming home.
It's plenty. A friend who moved away is found examining acorn squash at the busy fall market. His face is out of context. The eyes meet and blink and stare for a moment. The lines of the jaw. The shape of the nose. The Rolodex of the mind finds its match, its recognition, and then the heart finds its affection. The surprise meeting ends in pie and stories.
It's plenty. Untold bounty. The value in food when it's there. The shape. The color. The beauty. The tiny fingers wrapping around a grape. The crunch of children's teeth on dried apples. The camaraderie. The romance. The warmth. The security. Food fills more than stomachs. It's a connection between people and people, and people and the world. Food is the cornerstone of culture, togetherness, life. The foundation of civilization and a sense of humanness.
And when it's not there?
When food is gone?
I don't know.
I'm lucky enough never to have been there.
Many Americans are there right now, and many more are headed that way. I'm not officially part of the Feeding America series. But donate anyway, and Proctor and Gamble will match your donation.