Cottage Cheese and Apple Sauce
So, in the conversation, we talked about different tastes—
How cottage cheese and apple sauce deserved their rightful place.
So, in this moment of trusting things you say,
I applied a heaping helping upon my dinner tray.
Not one aside from each other, but both inside the bowl,
Mixed them up together—and before your eyes will roll...
The concoction is a masterpiece, in sweetness and in cheese,
And I found myself devouring it and asking for "more, please!"
It will become a staple on my dinner plate, for it is a healthy snack;
The creamy apple goodness is surely a life hack.
September’s Apples
By Frank Daub
September apples rest in the cellar,
barely in the light,
mellow,
turning cider
beneath their shining skins like cinnamon wine.
I bite one –
juice bubbles out
to the edges of my mouth.
There is sweetness first.
Then at once the tart September taste and
the white circle roughly broken from
the red round.
How long, I wonder, before the white darkens.
The white goes nut colored
before
I can finish peeling the red entirety --
Or
after I’ve taken the first bite.
What is it that makes us put apples in the cellar?
To keep them Autumn-like, extending the
crispness of a season bringing harvest?
This, or it does something to their flavor that the sun can’t finish.
I try to remember how the apples tasted when the old man and I pulled them
from the tree.
They were cold.
A little less mellow.
They are sweeter now.
Being buried was good for them. Buried in the deep cool of this cellar,
away from the sun.
The children snuggled and
tucked themselves into bed
as Nanny Agatha crept into
the dark room.
She wore a sharp, wicked grin
as she pulled a wooden bowl
from her apron.
Inside sat bruised, oozing
apples, completely covered
in fuzzy green mold and decay.
"Time for your bedtime treat,"
she hissed, her voice sounding
like dry, scraping autumn leaves.
She held a sour, rotten slice toward
little Tommy as she began her eerie
tale.
Her story was about a wicked witch
who trapped children inside deep,
black wells.
The brothers stared at the bitter, slimy
fruit, their hearts racing with glowing
dread.
"Watch every bite," Nanny whispered,
her shadow stretching long across their
shaking shoulders.
The bedroom windows rattled violently
as the foul stench of the fruit filled the
air.
She blew out the candle, leaving
them trapped in the dark with her
endless, unsettling story.
Deep within the city park
stood Barnaby, a highly
grumpy, semi- sentient apple
tree.
He absolutely despised
when children approached
with fawning, goofy faces to
steal his fruit.
Whenever kids giggled and
reached up, Barnaby would
furiously shake his wooden
branches.
THWACK! A barrage of ripe,
juicy red apples went flying
like heat- seeking missiles.
He pelted the screaming kids
right on their bottoms, chuckling
a low, creaky laugh.
The children thought it was a
hilarious game and ran through
the park intentionally.
They made ridiculous,
exaggerated kissy- faces just
to trigger the tree's flying fruit
defense.
Barnaby snorted woodchips,
launching a rapid- fire green
Granny Smith straight at a
nose.
The park echoed with loud,
joyful snorts as apples
bounced harmlessly off
targeted bellies.
The grumpy tree finally
smiled, realizing his thrown
treats made everyone incredibly
happy.
Alexa and Andrew the amazing artists asking awesome apples ...
Is a terrible idea
The sweetest apples may be fine,
And if turned into apple cider, quite divine,
But when on fish and chips I dine,
I order pineapple fritters with mine.
Written 2025
It was the green
That caught my eye
The red seemed, elusive
Do not touch
You can't hold
Why have eyes
If forbidden to experience
Is the norm
Day after day
Finding people
But no way to connect
They would speak
I would reject
Advances to communicate
Defenses engaged
Soul inflamed
I just want a taste
Not like a huge bite
Certainly not the entire amount
But unknown consequences
Are too many to count
Loops engaged
Pressure building
In the reach
Aggressive, passively
Trying not to offend
Too late for sorrow
Not worthy of the mend
It's over, hope died
Vulnerability covered
With immature vines
Awaiting judgement
Cutoff, cast out
It would be nice
To at least have my Adam
Roaming around
In a fall world
Alone and defiled
Feels alien, regrettable
Sentenced to isolation
Written by Trudy Schrader 05-20-2026
I spent the whole morning fighting corruption
And I suppose I defeated it
I subjected myself to obstruction
Debunked myself in the terms most concrete
I corrupted my fondest memories
Thought I deserve to be punished strongly
But out of the blue it dawned on me
That suffering wasn’t a help any longer
So once more I returned to corruption
Humiliated the frying pan by washing it
Exploited roughly with no instructions
The tap water, it gushed out down at my feet
Then your summer garden I saw at dusk
Your roses were blooming stunningly bright
And some fallen apples lay down in the grass
Beneath the apple tree, almost out of sight.
Only when we have felt, even once,
the clawed caress of strife,
do we value the soft warm hand
of peaceful days in our life.
Give me boredom and humdrum
over adventure and interesting times;
a quiet corner in a calm house
to write and edit my rhymes.
Oh, war has driven the pen stroke
and sorrow versed in the bomb strike,
but I’d rather read all about it
in a book and only imagine what it’s like,
than breathe the smoke of burning -
the death scent of a home.
I do not need to personally bleed
to scratch out a war-time poem.
Better to write of cows and apples,
than Flanders field and poppies;
to write of a Luve like a red, red rose,
than a requiem for the Croppies;
and though the poet much values his words
I’ll bet that each war-torn bard
would’ve chosen to write first hand in the soft
than ink pain in the trench of the hard.
Women love Apples — sweet and bright —
They keep their secrets — in the bite —
Green whispers sharp — Red answers mild —
Each flavor hums — a hidden smile —
The Orchard knows — what lips confess —
In summer’s heat — and silken dress —
A White Bikini — keeps its vow —
To veil the wish — She won’t Allow —
Yet still the fruit — betrays the truth —
Of honeyed breath — and blushing youth —
For longing lives — where teeth first meet —
And taste becomes — a kind of heat —
snow-laced temptations
bleed crimson on frozen ground ---
should Eve be reborn?
Solemn, inalienable right and poor, opportunistic excuse ...
An Apple a day keeps the doctor away
What if you want him for a night
To help you with weight
Kick kill candy craves
And to become his shopping wife
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I am cute hanging,
red apples falling,
oh no ~ they eat me.
apples
reddish yellow
falling tumbling rolling
freshly baking tasty sweetest
lovely
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