Spoiled

     "Would you mind bringing the apples up for me?"
      Of course not. Anything to facilitate the creation of my wife's sublime chunky cinnamon applesauce, which enlivens lamb chops and other meals throughout the year. 

      The apple tree by our garden was extra bountiful this year, and the squirrels were so busy eating the seed that fell from our bird feeder, they left them pretty much alone. Over several days back in September my wife and I had plucked the yellow apples off the branches, depositing them in our downstairs refrigerator, where they filled two bins. 

     I trotted down to the basement, where we had stashed the apples.  It took three trips to ferry them upstairs in big bowls.

     Apples will stay a long time in cool conditions. But one had gone bad — it must have been bad going in and we didn't notice. A big soft brown circle the size of a half dollar. I left that one for last, tucking it on top of the third bowlful. Fun must be seized where one finds it.

     My wife was in the kitchen. I set the last bowl down, and took up the rotten apple.
     "There was one bad apple..." I began.
     She immediately launched into song.

     "One bad apples don't spoil the whole bunch, girl!" she warbled. The 1970s Osmonds song — I would have sworn it was the Jackson 5, but memory is faulty. Though honestly, listening to it now, I realized, for the first time: the Osmonds were a white bread ripoff of the Jackson. Ah. Of course. It never occurred to me before. Slow on the uptake.
     I froze, my eyes narrowing. She caught my hard expression.
     "What?" she said.
     "Really?" I said, hard-edged. "Are you going to deny me this?"
     It took her a second to understand — not slow on the uptake — and then readjust. 
     "Oh there was?" she began, feigning innocence. "That's too bad."
    "No it's okay," I countered, recovering, with not quite the joy I would have before, but getting the most I could out of my chance. "Fortunately ...  one bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch, girl."
     I hated to make a fuss. But really, how often do you get the chance? It was now or never. While I avoid cliches in writing, I seek them out in life. Once, visiting New York City, I made a point of detouring into Grand Central Station, strode into the center of a vast terminal just so I could look around, spread my arms, and inquire, of no one in particular: "What is this, Grand Central Station?"
     Still, I was shaken that she knew where I was going with this, even before I got there. I think she's hanging around me too much. I'm starting to wear off on her. The poor woman.