I am apple butter.

I am apple butter.

I take planning and dedication.

My process is lengthy. I am slow-burning and hot to the touch. And I require constant attention and affection.

I am of the mountains. I belong with the hill people, those who appreciate the process. The togetherness. The ones who have biscuits and coffee no matter the time of day. I belong with those who bring me out of the dairy house for family, not just any old person who doesn’t understand the work that has gone into me. I am formed by old timers telling stories over me, praying over me and dedicating days to me

I started so humble-grown on a tree with so many just like me. Then I was taken from all I’ve ever known and while my neighbors got to stay, I’ve been mixed up with other kinds.  

Cooked down until I’m unrecognizable to those I spent my formative years with, taking on flavors of my new neighbors and those I’ll grow old with. I become something they’ll see as unnatural-away from my roots & limbs.

I keep well, for the long-haul: loyal and steady. But I must be canned quickly-I’ve required a lot of sugar to sweeten me up. But that’s apple butter and that’s me. I’m not quite sweet though it seems I should be.

The churning is constant. The turning over and movement from one spot to the other but always in the kettle, What do I want? Who will I be? Where do I want to live? What will my life turn out to be?

I like to be surrounded by people, in theory, but when it comes down to it one at a time is all I can handle. I am heritage, roots and Appalachia. I am fall foliage, sweaters and family gatherings, long and tedious. Fun at first but I quickly turn into a lot of work. More work than I’ll be worth later.

I’m messy and I don’t go easily from the fire. The work never stops until you’ve put me under pressure and shut me up, finally.  Enclosed with thick, black cauldron walls to the cool home of a jar-glass walled and exposed.

I am meant for breakfast with biscuits. Scratch made. More work. And isn’t that just like me? The work never ends. I can’t stand alone, I have to go along with something else.

Cans. Jars. Lids. Rims. Labels. Time. Shelf-space. I wait impatiently surrounded by jars that look like the new me. Looking for our turn: to show the unique flavors I have to offer.

Although I may look like it, I’m not like the others. I want you to like me just a bit more. To brag on me to your relatives and friends, “Now that’s a good jar of apple butter,” you’ll say and they’ll know what you mean, as compared to the others. And I’ll be secretly thrilled.

Maybe I’ll be that batch. The one. The batch they’ll remember each year as they count the hours-stirring when they say “I hope this years is as good as 1989s, now that was good apple butter.”

You’ll run out of me before next year. There’s never enough of me and I won’t make it till next October. So you’ll be left wanting more. But that’s the appeal, if I was around all the time, you’d take me for granted-I wouldn’t be special anymore. I’m not just any old jelly that’s easy to come by-I’m rare.