Appleonia Revisited

           I got a big frikkin’ knife and two bags of apples, if you wanna party.  Seriously.  We could do some damage.  Slice their skin off.  Cut ‘em down to the core.  We could carve ‘em into funny shapes and put them in compromising positions.  Take photographs.

            I’m trying to think up a few good uses for apples.  In a gross oversight of mismanaged shopping lists, we somehow ended up with thirty-seven apples sitting in our kitchen.  (Somebody went shopping without looking around the house first to see what we already had.)  Thirty-seven apples in our kitchen.  Just chillin’.  Hangin’.  Aging. 

            So far the only thing I’ve discovered about my old fruity friend the apple is that when you carve ‘em up and let ‘em sit on the desk they start looking like driftwood after a few hours.  In the right light.  Particularly when you cut around the core and you leave the right bits.

            Past that, I have no idea what she expects me to do with so many apples. 

Maybe I could build a house for ‘em.  Or an apartment complex.  Give ‘em all names, and a place to stay.  You ever tried to name an apple?  Give it a nice background story?  With heart? 

            I mean, if it was thirty-seven cats, now that would be something I could work with.  Or puppies.  Sweet Mary Crumbcake, how I could work with thirty-seven puppies in the apartment looking for direction and substance.  It would be disastrous good fun.

            But no.  I’m still struggling with apples.  I don’t know if she expects me to be mixing up seventeen barrels of hard cider.  Or enough apple pie for the next gathering of continental congress. 

            It’s terribly tempting to throw them at stuff. 

            I know.  I won’t.