Pickin' pity

Now that we’re Midwest folk we do things like apple pickin’… (No, there is no g at the end of words like pickin’ and goin’ and fixin’ to … whatever it is you might be fixin’ to do.)

… Or you try to do some apple pickin’. But if you have our luck, which most people are lucky enough not to, you drive all the way to Wisconsin on a gloomy day only to arrive and find that all the apples have been picked. (Who knew there was such a pickin’ craze in that state? And when exactly was the last apple deemed picked? Did an alarm sound? Wisconsin prompts many a deep thought.)

So we settled for some punkin pickin’. But unfortunately, there were few punkins to be found, just the exploded, bloated and rotted remnants of actual pumpkins, which are genetically different than punkins. (Which are round and bright orange and beggin’ to be carved into a lopsided jack-o-lantern grin.)

So we settled for some apple cider doughnuts, which are like unto the average doughnut but apparently made with apple cider. (From all those darn apples picked by faster folk, I suppose.)

And we sampled some hot apple cider. And we bought a big ol’ bag of pre-picked apples that we can pretend to have picked ourselves if we’re in the lyin’ mood.

Now, we’re fixin’ to make ourselves some sauce with all them apples.

And then we’ll head back to the drugstore we passed in Wisconsin that advertised its bridal registry.

Now that’s somethin’.