Still Not Fiction

Yesterday Kristin asked for some ideas for wedding decorations and we came to a sort of apple theme. The funny thing is, all I keep doing is thinking of my mom. Here's why:

Growing up, we knew a few things to do that would really irk my mom. For some reason, wiping cloth against your teeth drove her nuts. And apples. Well, more the fact that apple flesh browns. I can remember getting a candied apple from a pumpkin farm so large that I could clearly not eat it in one sitting. I remeber carefully eating one side at a time so that I could place it on wax paper in the refridgerator-- put the browning side toward the back of the fridge so my mom did not see it, freak out and throw it away.

Something must have snapped when I went away to college-- empty nest syndrome or something, because when I came home from freshman year, mom started collecting antique dishes and had completely redecorated our kitchen in--yep, apples. I said: But, mom, you hate apples. She said: yeah, I know. Weird lady. Not only has she decorated in apples, she painted a cute little apple border along the top of the walls and has an apple spoon rest next to the fake apple pie on the stove top. She has apple potpourri in an apple bowl and burns apple cinnamon candles to accent the aroma wafting from her little cinnomon stick broom on the wall.

Now it's moved into the living room. We have not one, but two corner hutches showcasing the antique tablewear. It's been there for years... but it still freaks me out. I mean, come on-- apples used to make her flesh crawl. So wrong.