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Yesterday one of the two teachers at Henry's school had to stay home with her sick kid, so in an effort to keep things running smoothly she called me yesterday morning to ask if I'd be willing to be an extra set of hands and eyes. I agreed, then went cold with fear because: kids! Gah! Dave hadn't yet left for work so when I told him the news he was all "OMG!", a sure sign he's spending way too much time on Facebook and not enough time wearing his Strawberry Tart costume. So yesterday I spent four and a half hours hanging out at Henry's preschool.

I'm pretty sure fate was somehow involved in clearing a path that resulted in my having to be there because yesterday was apple-picking day. We all walked down to the orchard and picked apples which we later cut up and used to make applesauce. The kids were over the moon about picking apples and quickly filled two large crates. All of this reminded me of something that happened last Fall, and although I feel like I've already written about this, I can't find the post so I'll risk repeating myself:

Last year I overheard a conversation between three teenaged girls who happened to walk by our house in the midst of apple season, which meant our sidewalk was littered with fallen apples. All three of them stopped and stared at the ground. Then they freaked out, shrieking "EEEWWWWW!" and "What are those?!?" They noticed me sweeping our front stoop so they asked me what they were and after shaking off my complete and utter speechlessness, I said "Apples." Then they noticed the apple tree and got all excited. Talk about having a complete disconnect over where the food you eat comes from.

I'm pleased to say that not one of the kids at Henry's preschool will ever be stunned by the sight of a tree with actual bona fide apples growing on it. They might, however, become overwhelmed with the desire to make applesauce.