by Jim Whitehouse
“What’s your favorite season of the year?” I ask my pal Snooker.
I’m hoping he says winter so I don’t have to feel like the Lone Ranger about my own preference.
“Fall,” he says, taking a sip of coffee
“What about you?” he asks.
“Oh, I like fall a lot, but winter? Or what’s left of it these days? That’s my favorite,” I say.
“Autumn is perfect,” he says. “Not too hot, not too cold.”
“There’s no such thing as too cold,” I say, “but fall is a great season and a close #2 on my list.”
“The colors! The smells of harvest,” he says.
“Pumpkins.”
“Yes! Pumpkins everywhere you look.”
We both reflect for a minute, finishing our coffee and signaling out young waitress for refills.
“The best thing about autumn,” says Snooker, “way out ahead of pumpkins, leaves and cool temperatures—I’ll bet you can guess what I’m about to say.”
“Nope. I have no idea, but I know that I’d say the best thing is that it means winter isn’t far behind.”
“It’s starts with the letter C,” he hints.
“Chrysanthemums,” I say.
“Gosh, I almost forgot about mums, and, yes, they’re special, but that’s not the C-word I was thinking about.”
“College football?”
“Yeah, that too, but—okay, I’ll tell you. CIDER!” he says.
“You are a genius, Snooker. Cider! There’s nothing better in the world than a proper glass of fresh cider. It’s even better than the first ripe tomato out of the garden at the end of July. It’s better than turkey and dressing on Thanksgiving. It’s better than a butter-fried morel in the springtime.”
Later that day, I’m standing in my kitchen drinking a glass of cider. My 6-year-old grandson George asks me what it is and I offer him a sip.
“It looks yucky. It’s brown,” he says, turning up his nose.
What a shame, I think, as I happily drain the glass.
“What IS cider?” he says.
“Apple juice,” I say.
“No it’s not. Apple juice isn’t brown,” he says.
My mind whirs, thinking of the subtleties of a good glass of cider. Fresh, sweet, smooth. Then there’s the stuff that you can buy in a grocery store that looks like cider but tastes like apple juice mixed with wood chips and mold. Or cider that’s starting to turn to vinegar, which isn’t too bad the first day but is a bit much the second day.
Hard cider is something I haven’t tasted because I’m a teetotaler, but I see it for sale on restaurant menus and in stores, so I know it’s popular. I do recall my college buddy TeePee who “borrowed” an alcohol burner and a bunch of beakers and glass tubing from his chemistry lab class and distilled hard cider in his dorm room closet, getting about an ounce of apple brandy out of a gallon of cider and two days of steam.
“Well, George, cider is apple juice that has been specially made by Mother Nature and a guy with a big press. It’s better than regular apple juice. You should try it.”
“NO! IT’S BROWN! IT’S YUCKY!”
“You’re right, George. You shouldn’t even think about trying it because that way there will be more for me.”
He trots off, smiling, happy to have seemingly won an argument with a grownup.
As for me, I shake the jug and pour another inch of the nectar into my glass.
Then, it is my turn to smile. Snooker was right. There are lots of great things about autumn, but cider is the best. Maybe little George will find his way to the truth as he matures.
