even though we're as american as, there will be no apple pie

My friends, it is that time of year again. Apples are everywhere. The trees down the street from me are dropping their worm-eaten sweet little things, and the orchards are overflowing (mostly with honeycrisp, but I won't complain). I've gone out and picked sacks of these volunteer apples around town and am currently making a batch of apple butter. And yesterday I made apple muffins with some leftover crab apples. Today, I have spent the afternoon thinking (in my sweet smelling apartment, thank you apple butter) about Johnny Appleseed.

You know, readers, this is not an uncommon experience, me sitting at my desk thinking about Johnny Appleseed. It is no more uncommon than me cracking open a book about Plymouth Rock, or Rushmore, or the Transcontinental Railroad. But this week I do it in preparation for an event: Johnny Appleseed's birthday. He's turning 235 years old, this Saturday, and we're celebrating. We'll say grace, and I'll bust out eight or nine dishes filled with apples and other delicious things.

I've got the Swiss Gourmet (one of my favorites, in homage of another Apple Legend, William Tell!), the Cox's Orange Pippin (hello motherland, England), and some American apples foraged and bought. I've even got some east-coast not far from Leominster (where Johnny was born--thanks Pennie!). If you're in Iowa City (which precious few of you are), stop by the old homestead at 7pm and eat and drink, pre-temperance style.