I'm in the fruit and vege aisle at the supermarket looking at the apples, feeling resentful because my granny smith, planted two seasons ago, made two apples this year, one of which fell off and rotted when I wasn't looking.
The other is still on the tree, looking small and forlorn. I haven't the heart to eat it. However, neither do I have any inclination to buy apples from the supermarket. Certainly they look fabulous - bright red and green, shiny and blemish-free. But I have squeezed a couple to see if the flesh gives and it does. If I had my eyes closed I'd think they were nectarines.
I know they will be every bit as disappointing as I expect. Soft, soggy, watery, flavourless and devoid of that crisp, gum-contracting bite that real apples have.
When I was a kid we had half a dozen apple trees in our garden. In those days, most Kiwi backyards had at least one, usually with a tyre attached as a swing. My pony usually ate all the low apples so we had to stand on the top of the tyre to get to the higher ones.
When the higher ones were gone we scrumped from the neighbour's trees, more for the fun of it than because we wanted the apples. Apple eating was really just a habit - you picked one when you went past for something to do.