I ruined my first batch of apple butter.
Let me back up.
Tom’s parents have this apple tree — a Granny Smith that’s been producing since before we were married. Every fall, they bring us more apples than any reasonable family could eat. The kids take some in their lunches, I make pie, and still we end up with a bowl of them slowly wrinkling on the counter, reproaching me with their sad little apple faces.
This year, I decided: apple butter. My grandmother used to make it. How hard could it be?
The answer, it turns out, is “not hard at all, as long as you actually let it cook low and slow instead of cranking up the heat because you have to pick up the kids in an hour.”
Here’s what I learned: apple butter is not a project you can rush. It’s supposed to simmer for hours, slowly caramelizing, the sugars developing that deep amber color and thick, spreadable consistency. What I made was… apple sauce with ambitions. Thin, slightly burnt on the bottom, and vaguely aggressive.
Tom ate it on toast and said it was “interesting.”
Reader: it was not interesting. It was bad.
But here’s the thing about failure in the kitchen (or the garden, or really anywhere): it teaches you something about yourself.
I am not naturally a patient person. I want results. I want to check things off a list. The idea of standing over a pot for four hours, stirring occasionally, doing nothing else — it makes me twitchy.
And yet.
My grandmother made apple butter every fall. She made it slowly, listening to the radio, probably thinking about things I’ll never know. It wasn’t a task to finish. It was a way to spend an afternoon.
So I’m trying again this weekend. I’m going to put on a podcast, pour myself a cup of tea, and let the apples do their thing. Emma wants to help stir. Thomas Jr. has declared the entire project “boring” but will absolutely eat the results, so.
Wish me luck. I’ll report back. 🍎