Puree

"I'll buy you applesauce, a six-pack."
Traffic noise drowns out his offer.
He means Motts, with the peelable, lickable, plasticized aluminum lids.
He means well, but I'm not feeling it.
I am not waiting an hour for store bought,
even though we both know I can't eat anything else at home.
"No thanks," I reply. "I'll make my own." I hang up.
Despite my invalid head and no-raising-heart-rate status,
I shuffle about the kitchen, a room never fully off-limits from my reach.
Lift a heavy French oven to the stovetop.
Assess and assemble apples, from drawer, from sack, from bowl.
Seek colander, scale, spice jars. Rinse fruits in sink, shake onto fresh towel.
Use Japanese Nakiri bōchō to chop core and seed from flesh.
Again, again, again.
Toss chunks into enameled vessel, twist on the heat.
Scatting, I go off script:
pour a heart's measure of pale brown sugar atop;
triple the recipe's recommended citrus zest;
sub lemon for orange, add cloves.
Faithful to the surprise ingredient, though, I pour apple cider over it all.
Stir and cover, uncover, stir, cover, wait, uncover, stir, wait.
All without patience, but also without energy.
Drag a chair to the range; allow myself to sit, slumped, catching breath.
Thirty-two minutes after the recipe says the apples will be cooked,
they are actually cooked.
Now for the destructive art of creating:
stick blender to steel bottom, whirl the motor
which groans through softened apple mounds
until a brassy, fragrant puree emerges.
Ladle a thick puddle of warm fruit sauce into a bowl,
carry to the couch, having earned my keep.
Lift a hard-won spoon to my tender mouth
just as the door from the garage swings open.
"I'm home, babe!" He calls out.
"And I'm hungry, join me" I command through swollen jaw
extending to him my homemade bowl of triumph.