There’s an apple tree by the interstate highway near several small parks and bridges and abandoned houses where people are trying to eke out shelter and rest. On one side is a community urban garden, not one of the lush neighborhood patches with heirloom produce but one with like zucchini growing up salvaged car fenders. Outside that patch there is a small green-apple tree. Every year it carpets the street with hard green apples piled up gathering wasps. No wonder: the apples are pure cringe-sour instead of sweet. So those apples carpeting the ground are generally missing one human bite apiece from disappointed fruit seekers.

This year instead of tiptoeing around the mess I decided to pre-empt the issue, and started snipping apples from the heaviest branches, the ones bowed down fit to break. In 5 minutes I gathered 14 pounds. (“I guess it’s like petty theft?” I said to my neighbor. She said “Why? What’s the ‘petty’ part?”) I washed and quartered them up and stewed them soft, peel & all; these are hard instead of juicy, so they needed a little water added for cooking. But first, in a small pot I cut the cores and discarded the seeds (the seeds contain some amount of cyanide), then simmered the cores in water and strained them out to make a very sour clear fruit stock. To blend the apples into sauce I used the fruit stock as blender liquid. The purée has a nice smooth texture, but is truly sour even with some coconut sugar added. It’s still valuable in salad dressings or to flavor other stewed fruits. They’re labeled and in the freezer now.

Yesterday evening I was strolling home and nearly slipped and fell on some slick uneven pavement. Fruit! Overripe fruit was trampled and slopped around all over the street, sidewalk, and the grass strip in between. At 5:30 this morning I took two quart containers and went back for a good look. A real prune plum tree! A couple dozen plums were still sound, but so ripe they were swollen with juice and splitting open. I gathered those from the grass, gave them a bath of salt water and another bath with vinegar, and stewed them right away.

Today after work I felt like visiting Mother N.’s old church and garden. There was no sensible reason and nothing to see; it’s doubtful that her soul is still lingering around there. Still, I felt like paying a visit to a place that was once hers. Nothing was blooming but some valiant lavender-colored phlox, now fading out. I stood there sending up some prayers for her, and then turned to go. Crossing the side alley to the building I glanced to the far end of the parking lot. The fence was buried in shrubbery. What kind? Sometimes weeds are the most interesting thing around, so I took that walk to the far end. And there was a whole thicket of the largest ripest Himalayan blackberries I’ve ever seen, jet black and brimming with juice. These rascally spiny-caned invasives invite themselves into fencerows and lots all over the city; virtually no one even notices or bothers to pick the berries. But these fell right off the canes into my spare jar. After careful washing and drying I spread them apart on little baking trays; they’re in the freezer now, and when they’re frozen they can go into sealed labeled bags. It was a marvel to find such large sweet berries. What accounted for that? Maybe that patch was nourished by Mother N. Maybe she stepped out the church kitchen door after suppers in the parish hall, and threw out coffee grounds or leftover borscht. We can eat them in good health to her memory.

Thank you, Mother!