It’s no wonder Santa Fe seems so quiet after spending several days in New York City. A million and a half people jostle for space on the island of Manhattan while two million of us spread out across the state of New Mexico. This week I have noticed every sound–the caw of a passing raven, the wind in the pinyon trees.
While I was gone the last of the summer visitors moved on and autumn moved in. The cottonwoods on Alameda Street turned gold, but the flowers didn’t completely given up–a stand of yellow hollyhocks is still blooming on Armenta Street.
Tuesday Dave and I went to the farmers’ market to look for apples. Most years I turn them into pies for the holidays, but after a week away from the kitchen I was not yet ready to wrangle with a rolling pin.
I decided, instead, to make applesauce. We tasted samples and poked around a box of seconds, filling a paper bag with golden supremes and honey crisps. The simple recipe* called for baking the apples and didn’t tax my jet-lagged brain. Now, if only I had a latke from Russ and Daughters on Houston Street to go with the tart, cinnamon-laced sauce.
*I left out the thyme and lemon and added a tiny bit of brown sugar and a healthy dose of Vietnamese cinnamon.