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What's your favourite and least favourite apple?

Marianne72

My home-grown apples will be ready in a few weeks. I had them identified and discovered the tree must have been grown by a former occupant as a pip, not a commercial variety. There are so many varieties! My favourite used to be Cox's, especially First Cox's [of the season], which were much larger. I gather that, due to climate change, this variety is no longer popular with growers - huge pity, as it had a crisp texture and strong, sharp taste. I don't like Royal Gala or Golden Delicious which I find bland. My favourite currently is Pink Lady, which is more expensive but has a strong taste. I like to eat my apples with cheese biscuits, celery, cheddar and a glass of cider. Or cooked Bramleys in a pie, crumble or with ice cream.

Which is your favourite variety? Which ones do you dislike? How do you like to eat them?

Parents

  • Not exactly about a favourite, but I lived for 20 years in the English county that's the home of cider (ignore the false claims from Somerset!). After visits to a century-old cider maker and the cider museum in Hereford, I rewrote the old folk song about making bread (John Barleycorn) to be about growing cider apples and making cider. The last couple of verses are names of apples from the Herefordshire/Welsh border area.

    Jack Scrumpy

    There were twelve men from Hereford
    Whose throats were very dry
    And these twelve men made a solemn vow
    that Scrumpy Jack must die.

    They cut his feet from under him
    And pinned him to a root
    And these twelve men made a solemn vow
    Jack Scrumpy they would shoot.

    They left him alone for a very long time
    Then cut him down to size
    But little Sir Jack's sprung up again
    Much to their surprise.

    And when he grew and multiplied
    They thinned him out again
    But he grew so hale and hearty then
    They knew he was not slain.

    The pinched him with their rough hewn nails
    Until his skin was bruised
    And did it again a week later
    Until he felt ill used.

    They hire'd men with their sticks so long
    To beat his limbs with might
    They've loaded his parts into the cart
    and left them forty nights.

    They hire'd men with their draught horses
    To drag him to the chase
    But then they served him worse than that
    For they ground him to pomace.

    They've taken him to the packing press
    And wrapped him up in hair
    And layered him up into the cheese
    And squeezed him fair and square.

    They've poured him in the wooden pipe
    And left him there to rot
    And topped him up from time to time
    And bunged him to a stop.

    They rolled him to a lonely shed
    And left him on a rack.
    Then they poured him in a jug
    And called him Scrumpy Jack.

    There's Munn's Red and Cherry Pearmain
    Slack My Girdle and Red Streak.
    There's Foxwhelp and Skyrme's Kernel
    And Wilding Bitter-sweet.

    There's White Norman and White Styre
    White Must and Kingston Black
    There's Hagloe Crab and South Quoining
    And all are Scrumpy Jack.




Reply

  • Not exactly about a favourite, but I lived for 20 years in the English county that's the home of cider (ignore the false claims from Somerset!). After visits to a century-old cider maker and the cider museum in Hereford, I rewrote the old folk song about making bread (John Barleycorn) to be about growing cider apples and making cider. The last couple of verses are names of apples from the Herefordshire/Welsh border area.

    Jack Scrumpy

    There were twelve men from Hereford
    Whose throats were very dry
    And these twelve men made a solemn vow
    that Scrumpy Jack must die.

    They cut his feet from under him
    And pinned him to a root
    And these twelve men made a solemn vow
    Jack Scrumpy they would shoot.

    They left him alone for a very long time
    Then cut him down to size
    But little Sir Jack's sprung up again
    Much to their surprise.

    And when he grew and multiplied
    They thinned him out again
    But he grew so hale and hearty then
    They knew he was not slain.

    The pinched him with their rough hewn nails
    Until his skin was bruised
    And did it again a week later
    Until he felt ill used.

    They hire'd men with their sticks so long
    To beat his limbs with might
    They've loaded his parts into the cart
    and left them forty nights.

    They hire'd men with their draught horses
    To drag him to the chase
    But then they served him worse than that
    For they ground him to pomace.

    They've taken him to the packing press
    And wrapped him up in hair
    And layered him up into the cheese
    And squeezed him fair and square.

    They've poured him in the wooden pipe
    And left him there to rot
    And topped him up from time to time
    And bunged him to a stop.

    They rolled him to a lonely shed
    And left him on a rack.
    Then they poured him in a jug
    And called him Scrumpy Jack.

    There's Munn's Red and Cherry Pearmain
    Slack My Girdle and Red Streak.
    There's Foxwhelp and Skyrme's Kernel
    And Wilding Bitter-sweet.

    There's White Norman and White Styre
    White Must and Kingston Black
    There's Hagloe Crab and South Quoining
    And all are Scrumpy Jack.




Children
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