Making Cider

Donald Davenport |

12/22/2007 - 12/23/07

First Place, adult essay
Donald Davenport makes fine use of dialogue and biographical detail to bring his friend, "Earl," to life. As we wait for the cider to be "done", we learn much about Earl's life, his opinions on everything from Red Delicious apples (he wouldn't throw them at a dog) to the overdevelopment of the Northern New Mexco countryside. By the end of the story, we found ourselves sharing Davenport's deep respect and affection for his sometimes cantankerous neighbor.

'Cider's done. Want a taste?"

Those are two of the more pleasant phrases to come out of Earl's mouth all year, and a sure sign that Christmas can't be far off. The rest of the year, Earl mostly spends complaining about things he can't fix. The government. The Veterans Administration. And all those greedy developers building cheap houses right in his view of the Sangres.

"They'll just keep building 'em until they've used all the water and the Río Grande ain't nuthin' but a trickle."

Earl isn't much for progress. The old ways are always best and, to Earl, cider is an easy manifestation of what was once right about Santa Fe.

He grows the apples himself, on a dozen or so trees planted next to an arroyo. He likes the old varieties, not the latest to come from those egghead botanists who breed things for how they look, not how they taste. Don't get him started on the miserable failings of the Red Delicious.

"I wouldn't throw a Red Delicious at a dog," he likes to say. "It's too good for the apple and an insult to the dog. A Golden Russet or a Cortland or even a good ol' Jonathan? Now, those are apples."

Early fall is cidering time in Santa Fe, but Earl likes to leave his fruit hanging on the tree long after most of the other apples have been picked.

"Folks always pick 'em too early. A good apple'll tell you when it's ready." Earl stops, scratches his head. "Sure as hell told Isaac Newton when one up and fell on his noggin, but I guess technically that was gravity talking."

Earl worked construction for nearly 40 years. There's no kind of brick, cinderblock or plaster, not to mention stucco, stow, straw bale or pumice-crete Earl hasn't used, sworn at or at least formed a hard opinion about.

"These contractors today. They think they know everything about building stuff. I've dropped more bricks on my toe than most of those boys ever laid."

He's mostly retired because of a bad heart, but still builds an occasional kiva fireplace just to keep a hand in it. He misses making things. That's why he makes cider.


The transformation from freshly pressed apple juice to cider takes about as long as it does for fall to lock things up and hand the keys over to winter. The juice ferments slowly, releasing small burps of carbon dioxide, which bubble up through delicate glass airlocks. It's when the cider seems most like a living thing.

"It's the apple's heartbeat," Earl likes to say. "It's got to be nice and slow, like one of them marathon runners."

This year, in our little valley north of Santa Fe, winter has been slow in coming. The aspens have been bare for weeks and there is frost in the mornings, but fall seems to linger, almost like a reluctant child unwilling to fall asleep. The newspaper predicts snow; we need it. Maybe by this weekend, maybe next.

Elsewhere, outside our little valley, the world wobbles unsteadily on. The war continues. People go missing. The housing market worsens and retailers predict a disappointing season. On the news, gang members shoot it out in a downtown alley and a homeless man is found, beaten to death with a piece from a broken shopping cart.

It's hard to feel much like Christmas with news like that.

But then I hear the familiar knock on my door and Earl's voice that somehow always reminds me of corrugated cardboard rubbing against a barbed-wire fence.

"Cider's done," he beams as I open the door. "Want a taste?"

So I follow him over to his modest little adobe, through the kitchen and out to the garage where he has built for himself a small enclosure. In it are shelves filled with bottles.

Taking one, he holds it as if admiring a work of art.

He fumbles to remove the muselet — it's what he calls that familiar wire cage that secures the cork to the bottle — and with practiced skill gently coaxes out the cork. It responds with a quiet shhh, like an annoyed librarian.

Into glasses Earl pours the bubbling, golden cider. He holds his to the light to watch the bubbles swirl before taking a sip.

I wait for his pronouncement before trying mine.

"Taste good?" I ask.

He closes his eyes for several moments and I see the lines in his brow furrow even deeper, as if he's trying to remember something important, something hovering just beyond the reach of memory. Finally he smiles.

"It tastes just like New Mexico," he says. "The apples here taste different from any other apple in the world. You can taste the soil. The sun. Even the sky."

I bring the glass to my lips and taste. The cider is rich, musky and surprisingly tastes only faintly of apples. It's not like that cloyingly sweet cider that comes in six-packs, the stuff Earl dismissively calls "Alco-pop."

I let the cider roll over my tongue and suddenly I am struck by how right he is. It's as if I can taste the blush of the Sangres and the faint earthiness of clay and perhaps even a hint of sweetness, not unlike piñon smoke.

"Earl," I exclaim. "You're right. It does taste like New Mexico."

"Old New Mexico, maybe. Not all this woo-woo stuff."

"Sounds like you don't hold much with the New Agers," I observe. "At least they aren't trying to bomb anyone back to the Stone Age." As soon as I say it I'm sorry. This is the closest we've ever come to talking politics and I have suddenly shown my true colors and they are indelibly blue.

He studies me for a moment and then just smiles.

"Sounds like you just need a little more cider," he says.

I don't argue. I've got no further to go than across the driveway and I'm home; the only sobriety checkpoint I'm likely to encounter will be from my wife.

He refills my glass and, as we talk and laugh, our differences fall easily away. I love this neighbor. There is no artifice, no pretense. He is as "old New Mexico" as the cider he makes.


Earl passed suddenly this September. I raked the apples that had fallen into piles under the trees and there they stayed until covered by the first snow.

It's nearly Christmas and still I find myself listening for the familiar knock at the door and Earl's raspy voice.

"Cider's done. Want a taste?"