13: Apples and Beehives
Coming back from Blackburn on the train the other day, I saw an apple tree out of the window. It was heavy with fruit, RUDE with fruit (what a saying). They were perfect globes of gold and red, and they were growing straight out of the unloved ground between the tracks and the countryside.
Maybe someone had thrown an apple core from the train window as it passed. I thought about this for a while. Given the size of the tree, it must have been some time ago. I imagined a smartly-dressed woman in a pea coat, with a respectable-yet-towering beehive and white musk perfume sliding the partition across and pushing the core out of sight and into the brambles. I imagined what she might have been doing on the train, and who she might be. Or whether she'd actually been a schoolboy in one of those unfortuante caps they still make them wear at the private school nearby, or a businessman in a pinstripe suit, or a farmhand, or a shopper, or a vicar.
And then the tree grew, blossoming in the spring, bearing fruit in the autumn, shedding leathery leaves before the frosts came, and perhaps the woman (I decided it was the woman who did it) saw the tree without realising she'd planted it. Or perhaps she never came this way again. I wondered if anyone had ever eaten the apples off that tree, or if it created them every year for birds and worms and compost. I kept thinking about those apples, ripening in their nowhere-place, and about the person who might have thrown their ancestor there.
And then I got home and wrote the first chapter of something I'm tentatively calling "a book? Maybe?", and the thought of those apples kept me writing and writing.
I think this is why I'm bad at listening to audiobooks on trains.
Other Stuff
This profile on Iliana Regan, a Midwestern chef who focuses on foraged, local ingredients is a beautiful and, very importantly, incredibly interesting insight into her life and why she cooks the way she does.
The very first paragraph of Phil Mellows' piece on beer in the Faroe Islands is gripping, and from there it just gets better. Related: I need some Rinkusteinur in my life, and I need to take on the term "mountain beer".
Lilias Adie was imprisoned for witchcraft in the 18th Century, and when she died she was buried on the Fife seashore, her soul weighted down by a huge sandstone slab. She was the only so-called witch to be buried in Scotland -- all others were burned. Her bones were pillaged during the 19th Century, and now councillors are seeking out her remains so they can give her a proper burial, and create a memorial in her honour to mark the needless cruelty inflicted on those charged with Witchcraft. This sad story of persecution and rabid superstition never gets any less shocking or pertinent to me. Read the whole article here.
I found this blog post by Alfonso Cevola on how wine influencers make him feel stupid and patronised really insightful and incredibly useful. Yes, I agreed with him to some extent. Then, I wondered how I could use his thoughts to improve my own writing. Then I hurriedly wrote down all the writers and "influencers" he recommends in his excellent list.
This has been shared a lot already but it really deserves your time -- Sanjeeta Bains for Birmingham Live has taken an in-depth look at how British Asians have rescued many of the area's pubs from closure and turned them into thriving community hubs, and it's a joy.
Tony Hawk Pro Skater is getting a documentary. I cannot wait. Here's the trailer.
I absolutely loved this piece on how the year 2004 changed California wine forever. It somehow manages to be packed with data and details, but be thoughtful and engaging too. I guess that's why Esther Mobley is one of the greatest.
My Stuff
Not much to report this week -- I'm working on plenty, as usual, but none of it is visible to the naked eye.
Grab this month's copy of Ferment magazine to see my piece on the Carnivale Brettanomyces homebrew festival. I'll hopefully have a link to an online version next week.
I wrote this profile on Harbour Brewing recently and I loved Adam Sergent's attitude, so here it is for a bit of escapism.
Stained glass depicting Malcolm X visiting a Workers Association
meeting in Smethwick at the Red Lion in West Brom
// designed by artist Steven Cartwright as part of the Creative Black Country project