This is a bit lighter than most of what you usually find here, but still worth a read. It comes courtesy of Blair Robertson.
I know this blog is meant for articles concerning rape, sexual violence, domestic abuse, even something merely feminist in nature, and believe me, I’m gonna stretch this as far in one of those directions as I can, but today I’m writing about apples. Yes, apples. Call me un-American, call me a Commie bastard if you need to, but I simply get no thrill out of apples. (I don’t like pizza either, to further your political assassination of me, but that’s a rant for another day). I want to love apples. I wait, like most of us, for autumn, for that first bite into the perfect, crisp, just-off-the-tree apple. I bite in, and just don’t get it. I continue to take bites, waiting for that really good one. It doesn’t come. I buy apples of all different varieties, thinking I’ll find a new hybrid that’ll do the trick for me. They don’t. Over the years, I’ve honed my tastes to wanting a certain crispness, a certain tartness, I even know how many spots I want on my Granny Smiths. But I’ve reached a point in my life where apples offer me dwindling gratification. I could climb to the top of the damn tree to pick the one farthest out on the teeniest branch (thereby risking life and limb–mine and the tree’s), and it wouldn’t be any better.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m as eager to keep the doctor away as the next person. I don’t find apples offensive. I can eat them all the way to the end. (Well, not really. I think the seeds and the core are yucky.) I know they are healthy and good for me. My daughter just told me that eating an apple in the morning gives you as much energy as drinking a cup of coffee does, although I don’t believe that for a hot second. I buy them, and I eat them.
But let’s look at some alternatives. When I can get black cherries or Ranier cherries in the summer, every one I eat is so freaking delicious that I often eat the whole bag before I notice I’m doing so. Even though each one tastes quite similar to the last, each becomes an epiphany unto itself, each delights me anew, each is an experience in gastronomic transformation. And plums. Starting in June, I buy a bag of plums each week, until I find the bag of perfect plums, which usually only happens once each summer. And when I taste that perfect plum, I actually shiver with bliss. I don’t think there is a food on this earth that can rival the taste of the perfect plum. Maybe only getting one or two every summer enriches the experience. I know it gives me something to live for.
Back to the apple. Here’s where I can go all feminist on your ass, if you need some substance in this blog. With all the trouble apples have caused humanity, especially women, they should be better. Eve was deceived by the serpent, and ate the apple. Adam was not deceived, but just went ahead and sinned, eating it too. It caused us all to die. Because he ate it, God “put enmity between Adam and women.” There you go. Because she ate it, God caused her “very severe” pains in childbirth, and said, “your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.” This man ruling over women is the source of all of our problems with men. And it’s because HE sinned. That right there is reason enough to be feminist. And then they had to wear clothes on top of that.Thanks for the bras, God! Now, I don’t believe one jot or tittle of that story, but if there was any truth to it, that damn apple should have been downright orgasmic. And maybe God didn’t even tell them, but made apples not as good after that, either.
So, when you look at it that way, I’m not sure my disappointment in apples speaks to my crummy politics, like you’ve decided. I think it’s perhaps a far more cosmic disappointment. Somehow, in the fucked-up creation of the world, apples were made to lose their charm for me. I’m not sure I can use any of these arguments to explain my dislike for pizza, but again, that’s an argument for another day.