Well, okay. They’re not particularly murderous. Nor did they go away, say, on a short jaunt to the beach or something, and then unexpectedly return. Basically, there’s just been a huge honkin’ sack of apples sitting on my counter ever since we went apple picking on Labor Day. And like the loaves and the fishes, no matter how many apples I take out of the bag, it remains full.

I knew we’d reached code red when I was packing lunches this morning. My hand reached towards the bag and immediate, stereo harmony blared from the kitchen table:

“I don’t want an apple in my lunch!”

Okay, okay. I get the picture. Sheesh.

So this afternoon I hopped in my car, drove over to my friend Marcey’s house–she wasn’t home, of course, because as a productive member of society she has a job ya know–broke in, and stole her whatchamacallit.

Now, ignoring the fact for a moment that I broke into my friend’s house and stole something from her, aside from that, I’m sure you’re wondering what sort of whatchamacallit could be so important as to merit burglary, and what in the name of all that is lucid does this have to do with apples? But I haven’t gone ’round the bend just yet, honestly. My booty from this mission was this contraption.

In a little while I’m going to roll up my sleeves and start decimating that apple pile. Come hell or high water, I am going to use them up. I will assemble and then freeze crisps and pies and reclaim my countertop for… ummm… other stuff. And next time we go apple picking, I will exercise a modicum of restraint.

Unless the apples are really gorgeous. Or smell awesome or are super-crispy. Or if the kids are just having so much fun I can’t bear to tell them to stop. Or… oh, crap. Who’s coming over for dessert?