Henry has been OMG so busy because of his job, which means he’s been sorely slacking on the produce tip. (If he were a real man, he’d find a way to multitask, thank you.) Thankfully, Gayle had a spare apple for me yesterday, but after prowling around the department for a little while earlier today, it was starting to look grim. Barb gave me a peach but last time I checked A PEACH IS NOT AN APPLE.
But then my boss caught wind of my apple hunt and gifted me with a Honey Crisp, so I’m totally content right now.
Some of my co-workers were like, “WTF is up with you and apples, anyway?” and since it’s Throwback Thursday on some blogs, I decided that this would be a good time to repost the story that started it all! Dude, it’s from 10/27/2011, which means I’ve stuck to an obession for almost two years,e ven though Henry was all, “No, I’m not going to buy you an orchard considering you’ll probably hate apples after three weeks.” Well, BOOM, motherhumper! Look at me, still eating the apples after all this time.
Or: How Barb Found Another Way To Ruin My Life
Or: That Fucking Tomato, The Sequel
Before Barb left work on Monday, she had to go and fuck up my whole world by offering me an apple. I just smiled and said thanks, but what was really happening at that moment was that a vignette of cumulative botched apple-cutting situations began whirring around in my head, my inner-wrists started tingling at even the suggestion of wielding a paring knife, and my teeth were curling back inside my gums at the thought of biting into a whole apple.
Meanwhile the ghost of Johnny Appleseed openly mocked me from above my desk.
It just sat there all night, to the left of me, this glowing red/yellow orb of temptation. If I had been the original Eve, the Bible as we know it (and I don’t really know it) would be drastically altered, because I have a feeling Adam would have been too busy exploring holes with his dick to cut a fucking apple.
We might all be walking around nude right now.
Eventually, I tossed it into my purse, thinking I would just find some way to eat it at home. And by that I of course mean Henry would put a Gerber bib on me and slice the apple into Erin-appropriate wedges.
That night at work, I ate peanuts and Halloween candy instead. Fucking apple.
I forgot the apple was in my purse until the next morning and Henry had the audacity to not drop everything and come home from work wearing his produce armor to cut my fucking apple.
“Where did you get an apple?!” he asked, probably thinking I was trying to eat random growths from neighborhood trees again.
Gee, I don’t know, Henry. An old fucking lady brought it up to my cottage window while goddamn bluebirds sang Disney songs behind her.
“Barb gave it to me last night and I put it in my purse! Don’t act like you don’t go through my purse!” I answered defensively, like I was trying to deny an affair with a bait shop owner.
(This all happened via Facebook; look at me, making it appear that Henry and I have real life conversations that don’t take place via the Internet, text, and Post-It Notes!)
Seriously, when will apples shake their stigma? WE NEARLY BROKE UP OVER THIS.
I had people on twitter sending me tutorials but the first I watched said I needed a melon baller and I started to break a sweat because I was pretty sure we don’t have a melon baller and also because I think I used a melon baller as a torture device in a short story I wrote a long time ago.
I decided to just wait for Henry to come home from work.
Henry hadn’t yet had a chance to get both feet through the door before I was blocking his path and shoving an apple-fist in his face.
He looked tired and disgruntled.
“Give me the fucking thing,” he said, snatching the apple from my hand. As he disappeared into the kitchen, I heard him grumble, “You’re pathetic.”
Nice to know he worries about my safety and the possibility of apple-induced arterial spray.
He practically frisbee’d a plate of shoddily-cut apple wedges at me before storming out the door to pick up our son, who will have to learn how to cut his own apples if he ever so much as dreams of eating one when Henry is away from the house.
This was definitely the product of a pissed off man with a knife. I call it Henry Sliced the Apple: the shocking conclusion to How Will Erin Eat Her Apple?
When I got to work later that day, I regaled Barb with the horrors of what had come to be known as Applegate. I did a lot of hand-wringing to further illustrate the distress her stupid apple had put me under.
“Oh, honey,” she said in her Babying Erin Voice, which you might have figured gets a ton of use. “You should have just used the apple corer we keep here.”
WHAT APPLE CORER.
I took a picture of Barb demonstrating, so I could look back on it for reference.
That night, Barb left me another apple, the apple corer thing, and an assignment: to try it by myself.
I waited until everybody but the late shift people had gone for the day, just in case I wound up causing a scene. You never can be too safe. My first attempt propelled the apple with great force against the kitchen wall, knocking over the paper towel holder. (Speaking of the paper towel holder: The roll was empty the other night and I put a new one on all by myself. So now no one can say I haven’t helped out around there.) I think I didn’t have it properly centered because I might not have been paying attention.
My second attempt sent me lurching into the kitchen counter, but I did reach some low level of success. I couldn’t get the blades to split the apple the whole way through and wound up having to break it off the corer thing, but this was a win as far as Things Erin Tries To Do In The Kitchen goes.
Then I happily ate my apple, while saying, “I did this myself!” to everyone who walked by. (And by everyone, I mean just Carey.)
And that is how I learned to cut an apple at work.
(You should see me with an orange.)