Summer Lovin’

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Sixteen years ago tomorrow we shared our first kiss. Or at least I think we did. Forgive me as time challenges memory. We saw fireworks–literally. Overlooking Boston’s Back Bay we took in the July 4th Pops Spectacular and also celebrated the beginnings of us. It was likely the last time I stayed up late enough for such a display. Four years and a few days later we were married atop Vail Mountain.

This “holiversary” (think Chrismukkah) is witness to our union, friendship and partnership. Like the novel One Day (sorry Anne Hathaway but you ruined the movie for me) the course of an entire year can be examined on a single day, thereby revealing the passage of time and the evolution of a relationship. The day itself may be mundane or remarkable, depending on the year. In 2005 we greeted the day in the hospital, following the second repair of our firstborn’s heart. In 2011 we scattered some of my father’s ashes at the very spot that he gave me away. Other years have been recognized with a simple outing to the community pool or a patriotic small-town parade. Last year involved many, many boxes and an equal measure of stress.

This is the year we reclaim our adventurous spirit. The summer we met–way more fit and a lot less tired– we’d swim in Walden Pond and bike 30-plus miles for our favorite ice cream. We’d walk along the Charles into downtown Boston for a movie or we’d wake pre-dawn to compete in some sporting event…and perhaps even make it to the podium. Then of course we’d eat more ice cream.

How are we going to earn said ice cream this year? We’re doing it SoCal style. That’s right– we are taking ourselves surfing! Forget romance. But I can guarantee comedy. I only wish I could document this destined-to-be debacle for you. You’ll have to rely on your imagination for that.

With the kids in camp on Friday we’ll have a few hours to play, just like we did that summer sixteen years ago.

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The Pies That Bind

Apples have been causing man and woman strife since the days of Eden. This weekend proved no different. My husband and I were out for a rare child-free dinner, marveling at the sunset on a warm summer autumn evening. We agreed that it’s hard to believe fall is upon us when the first of October may hit 90 degrees. I’m not at all complaining; it’s just odd. I don’t love cold weather, but I appreciate the festivities that come with it, not the least of which is the delicious Pink Ribbon Bagel at Panera, offered only one month a year. Enjoyed with hazelnut coffee on a brisk fall day, that treat is worth the wait. Not to mention it’s a great way to support National Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Other fall favorites are evident, such as scarecrows, pumpkins and Halloween costumes. But apples, a signature of the season, are few and far between at best. When I expressed this disappointment to my husband, he immediately offered up that we should head to Julian to pick apples.

Where?!

Apparently this Julian is the apple orchard mecca of Southern California. It also happens to be 40 miles away. My relief that apples do exist was overshadowed by my disbelief that he dared to suggest we go. You see, in the 17 years that my husband spent on the East Coast he never took to traditions that were seasonal and symbolic, like apple picking. He did join us fairly frequently on family outings to Terhune Orchards, a beloved farm just down the road from us in New Jersey—but that was mostly for their famed cider donuts. Now that I‘ve moved over 3,000 miles away from the ubiquitous apples, he wants me to drive 40 more to experience something he didn’t particularly enjoy when it was actually easy to do so?

I have a better solution: When life hands you lemons, make lemonade; when life doesn’t provide apples to pick, buy a delicious pie. Therefore, October is dedicated to finding the best local apple pie. After all, we are hosting Thanksgiving this year so I’ll need some fabulous desserts. That means my pie tasting month is essentially a selfless act. And because I am so giving, I suppose I will share my test samples with my dear husband. We both love a good pie, regardless of where the apples are grown.