The Kitchen

I have read somewhere that the apple is one of the most widely cultivated tree fruits. I don't know if this is true. I wonder how widely cultivated peaches are, or oranges. Do apples adapt better to varying climates, allowing them to be more widely cultivated? I am not a botanist. I actually have little interest in plants or trees or fruits of any kind. I pull an apple out of the fridge. I like the weight of it in my hand. It is like balancing a small child on your shoulders or carrying a cup of coffee to your chair. There are certain weights that are more satisfying than others. Rolling the apple back and forth in my palm, I think I should wash it before I take a bite. My mom would tell me, "You don't know who touched that or what chemicals they used." I think about pesticides and migrant workers and big crates full of apples. I think about huge trucks filled entirely with apples traveling across the country. I do not wash it. I do not want to wash it. This is probably disgusting and sentimental. I'm not sure. I sit on a wooden chair. It's a normal chair with four legs and slats in the back, a wedding present from my mother-in-law. I should buy cushions for these chairs, cushions with flowers, but maybe he wouldn't like a floral print. Still, I would like some cushions and also two place-mats for the table. I press my lips to the fruit and hear it snap as I tear off a piece. The sound is nice. Nice sounds don't exist in sad books. Only tragic sounds exist in tragedy -- the shutting of a door, pale notes hanging in the air, the chug of a train as it leaves the station. Empty sounds. But I guess everyone knows that. I'm not being profound.