Apple Pride Does Abound

It’s true, we take for granted the things we see everyday. Even the extraordinary can become ordinary with enough routine. Living in the Yakima Valley, for example, who hasn’t seen an apple orchard? We all know the look, familiar by its tidy rows of leafy trees, some trellised, some not, blocked out against the pale yellow of the low desert hills. Driving by quickly on our way somewhere, it’s just, well, the Yakima Valley. Because apples aren’t as delicate as most other fruits they have become the reliable ambassador of the fruit bowl. Available year round, awesomely portable, and completely affordable, its something that we forget about until we need it, and when we do, it’s always there for us.

That being said, apple pride does abound. We produce the most apples in a state that produces the most apples in the country. And let’s be honest, there is truly nothing like the tender-crisp-sweet of an apple right off the tree. While the evolution of storage techniques is pretty fantastic, the inexact perfection of Mother Nature is glorious. Which is why, on these color changing warm days, Shelley and I decided to hit the open road to do some orchard exploration to pay homage to this Valley celebrity.

All I have to say is, WOW. I know the orchards are beautiful, but oh my, are they beautiful. There is nothing like an experience—even if I’ve had it many times—to remind myself of something I already know. On a slope where the ridge is spilling itself down into the lower valley, we park on a hillside and walk into a Braeburn harvest. The place is pulsing with activity. Tractors ferry large wooden bins where they are needed, checkers conspire at row ends to ensure everyone is on the same page, and pickers are walking to and fro, tree to bin, with a quick pace that is only slowed by how gently they lay the fruit. We catch up with spry field supervisor, Juan Gonzalez, and he shares with us that he is 81 years old, and can’t imagine a day where he is not outside, walking the rows. He just loves what he does, and it’s not hard to see why.

Our next field trip takes us out west of Yakima. Again; WOW. This time we take more of a Sunday drive approach—driving slow with peeled eyes and the windows rolled down. Up and over the hills, old orchards and new, picked and unpicked, it just keeps laying itself out before us. Some of the red varieties that are still on the trees are so dark they look downright black. The bright Pink Ladies are here and there, taking their time on the trees like always. And of course, the leaves are starting to yellow, showing their age as the season moves forward. The landscape here is so broad, capped with a cartoonishly blue sky the traditional apples seem like a gaggle of nuns at the circus. Slowing down to really soak it all in feels right, as if allowing the extraordinary to be itself again makes the world exhale a breath its been holding for a while.

The only thing left to do is eat up. I return to the Braeburn orchard, and while the picking is finished, the apples are not. The oddly shaped, tiny, and poorly colored are still there for the taking. I pick a shirtful, taking them home to fill my fruit bowl. It just doesn’t look the same without ‘em.