The Apple Of My Eye
I came that close to abusing my position today and calling Frieda Morrison at the Beechgrove Potting Shed. You see, we're renting this house in Inverness that has a small back garden with a little apple tree in it. In the past few weeks we've watched the apples grow. They've turned from green to rosy red and now a few have started to fall from the branches. Naturally the Zedettes have wanted to pick the rest of them and see if they taste good. Funny how they're never that keen on the apples we buy at the supermarket.
Mrs Z. wasn't so sure about this big apple-munching scheme and tried to scare us with all sorts of stories about headless maggots and rabid squirrels. She insisted we could only devour the fruit if it was washed, sliced and baked in a pie at a temperature slightly warmer than the conditions you find on the planet Mercury.
We agreed. So that's how I spent my afternoon. I stewed the apples in sugar and cinnamon, rolled out the shortcrust pastry, brushed the whole thing with some beaten egg and stuffed it in the oven for half an hour. Then we all paced the floor until it was time to unveil our masterpiece, smother slices of it in warm custard and lick our lips.
No ill-effects so far. If my next report is from Raigmore Hospital you'll know I should have called Frieda after all.
