In the backyard of the house I grew up in there was an apple tree. In addition to producing apple blossoms and a few bird/bug pecked apples through the years, this apple tree was one of the many backyard things that I latched onto and hold most dear about my childhood. (Others include the row of giant lilac bushes that we would make "perfume" out of. So beautiful... the swingset... the willow tree/willow stump... the murky dirt area under the deck... the vegetable garden... the dog house... the a-frame... etc.)
This particular tree was struck by lightning at some point, and half of it came crashing down. There is something poetical about any tree that has been struck by lightning. Really about anything or anyone who has been struck by lightning, but in my opinion particularly a tree. Like the chestnut tree in Jane Eyre!
The tree never produced, before or after the strike, very memorable apples (if there were any at all), however it mated with my neighbors' pear tree and their tree produced papples. They were shaped like pears, tasted like sweet and slightly apply pears, and had a texture like semi-firm apples. They were delicious. And their tree would just sag with them. So of course we received large brown grocery bags of them. So good.
I could really go for a papple.
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