Bad apples

No one teaches you what to do with bad apples. Unlike say, bananas, where pretty much everyone with a faint pulse knows you can salvage the potassium protuberance decaying on your breakfast nook by baking a quick loaf of banana bread. We’re often told that a bad apple ruins the bunch. It’s so final though. You could’ve toiled for hours, picking away your favorites in any orchard of your choosing, and then upon discovering a single rotten fruit, tossing the entire canvas sack to the curbside. Leaving it for the birds and the worms and those drive-by gleaners untroubled by problematic apples. 

But as a society we must determine how to best deal with bad apples. They’re not going away entirely – not anytime soon. Our standards for apples should be higher. Much higher. I’ve seen people bite into apples with more holes than the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. More blemishes than the pockmarked surface of the moon. A serious bout of teenage acne should be a prerequisite for lunar exploration. To be an impossibly smooth-faced astronaut would be a problem for Houston. I’ve witnessed fools and morons cutting into an apple that’s softer than quicksand. How we went from the days of John Appleseed to accepting substandard apples is a mystery I may never solve. 

Do you really think this enterprising young New Englander, born in the original thirteen colonies, was alone in his affinity for spreading seed? There were others, too. Individuals who tried and failed to see their fruit favorites capture the national appetite. There was Frederick Peachman and John Plum. George Pear and Catherine Strawberry. Horatio Nectarine and Abigail Melon. None of whom were able to rouse their fellow citizens to join them in a futile quest to upend the apple’s nationwide appeal. The fruit’s versatility was unrivaled. Have you ever had plum wine or pear whiskey? It’s nothing compared to the refreshing quality of a tankard of hard cider. John knew that. He banked on it. Ply people with enough drink and they’ll ignore the bad apples in their midst. 

But not any longer. While a foundational American beverage, cider ain’t what it used to be. We’ve swapped it in favor of kombucha and almond milk. Drinks that would’ve sent any good American to the confessional booth for a one-way rant with God. He was the first version of Apple support. There was no genius bar back then, just a lone maniac, walking the land barefoot. We might be wise to enlist the Cupertino cadre in this thankless project. 

If you see an inferior apple, get rid of it. In recent months, I've gravitated towards what apple people call “Gold Rush.” I’ve unilaterally renamed the apple “Golden Dawn,” since it evokes the resonant nomenclature of a religious cult, terrorist organization or off-off-off-Broadway musical. Biting into one tastes like eating a new sun.

It's time for the good apples to step up and say in a single voice, "the world needs compost and that's where you, my little rotten friend, are headed if you don't shape up."

Wise words from a wise fruit.