I spent my equinox birthday leading a retreat on the Isle of Iona. When I came home, TM had ordered me a small apple press (in bits) for the fruits of our little orchard.
'It'll take us 10 minutes to put the press together,' declares The Man. 'Two hours,' I mutter darkly. As always, the truth lies between the two (though closer to my two hours, it has to be said).
An hour and a half later we're ready to go.
Press is looking good - beechy, red ironwork, dinky.
I'd sprained my wrist the day before, so quartering and coring about 150 apples with a wrist twist is quite hard going, but it is sunny and I am chopping outside.
The Man is very fit and very strong (he's a philosopher who makes his living as an eco-builder). A few turns of the top bar (at right angles to centre spindle – not visible in photo), and he's feeling it.
No juice.
After another round, we take all the apples back out and chop them more finely.
Ditto. TM's veins are standing out and the press is making an ominous noise (it's only little).
I say, suddenly remembering: 'I think the last time we did this [with friends, several years ago] we put the apples through a crush first.'
He says: 'No, I don't think so.'
I say: 'You operated the crush.'
'No I didn't. I was chopping by hand, with you two, while Simon pressed.'
I remember I wrote a blog on it with photos, and find it. Simon is operating the press. Barbara and I are chopping apples by hand (sacks and sacks of them, their orchard and ours combined). TM is operating a metal crusher.
'Hmmm', he says. Goes to order a small crusher to add to my birthday present.
Daughter and I take all the apples out again, and improvise a crush by battering small apple pieces with blocks of wood in big saucepans.
We try a 3rd time. Dribbles and then small streams of juice. It's opaque and brown, oxidised now (or is it oxidated?).
Hmmm.
5 or 6 hours from beginning, three bottles – of apple elixir, rather hardwon. Tastes divine, though. We cheer.
Next weekend. Honest. Next weekend.
'It'll take us 10 minutes to put the press together,' declares The Man. 'Two hours,' I mutter darkly. As always, the truth lies between the two (though closer to my two hours, it has to be said).
An hour and a half later we're ready to go.
Press is looking good - beechy, red ironwork, dinky.
I'd sprained my wrist the day before, so quartering and coring about 150 apples with a wrist twist is quite hard going, but it is sunny and I am chopping outside.
The Man is very fit and very strong (he's a philosopher who makes his living as an eco-builder). A few turns of the top bar (at right angles to centre spindle – not visible in photo), and he's feeling it.
No juice.
After another round, we take all the apples back out and chop them more finely.
Ditto. TM's veins are standing out and the press is making an ominous noise (it's only little).
I say, suddenly remembering: 'I think the last time we did this [with friends, several years ago] we put the apples through a crush first.'
He says: 'No, I don't think so.'
I say: 'You operated the crush.'
'No I didn't. I was chopping by hand, with you two, while Simon pressed.'
I remember I wrote a blog on it with photos, and find it. Simon is operating the press. Barbara and I are chopping apples by hand (sacks and sacks of them, their orchard and ours combined). TM is operating a metal crusher.
'Hmmm', he says. Goes to order a small crusher to add to my birthday present.
Daughter and I take all the apples out again, and improvise a crush by battering small apple pieces with blocks of wood in big saucepans.
We try a 3rd time. Dribbles and then small streams of juice. It's opaque and brown, oxidised now (or is it oxidated?).
Hmmm.
5 or 6 hours from beginning, three bottles – of apple elixir, rather hardwon. Tastes divine, though. We cheer.
Next weekend. Honest. Next weekend.
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