Drying Apples

I have 2 Northern Spy trees. These apples are great for apple pies. Every year that I have a decent crop, I can apple pie filling. Then, any time during the year, when I want a pie, I just have to make (or buy) the pie crusts, and just dump the filling in and seal and bake them.

One year, we had a lot of early windfall apples, and I kept them picked up. They weren’t quite ripe enough to eat, nor did I get enough at one time to make a canner load. So I sliced them, and froze them. Eventually, I used them to make apple cobbler. The last batch of them (already almost 3 years old) I used about a month or so ago. As I had them setting out to thaw, I would periodically pull a piece off and eat it. I realized that it tasted a lot like dried apples, and thought, “I’ve got to get a food dehydrator, and dry some apples this year.” The crop looks to be pretty abundant this year, so there will be plenty to can, and I can still dry some. So, I got my food dehydrator last week. There are a few apples falling, but I’m not sure they’re really ripe enough to dry. I may try some of them anyway, to see how they turn out – when I get enough to load the dehydrator.

Now thinking about drying apples reminded me of a piece of doggerel my father quoted a couple of times. I couldn’t remember all of it, but I found it on the internet, and also a small write up on how it came about. At this link Overland Stage, scroll down to page 97 (don't worry, it's just one page, starts with Page 93). The little poem doesn’t have a specific author; my understanding of it is that it just sort-of grew – contributions by people who shared the sentiments thereof. And here is the little poem:

Dried Apple Pies

I loathe, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that's fit to eat;
But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don't give me dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
'Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don't take half the peeling off.
Then on a dirty cord 'tis strung
And in a garret window hung,
And there it serves as roost for flies,
Until it's made up into pies.
Tread on my corns, or tell me lies,
But don't pass me dried-apple pies.