It is quite possible that the apricot tree in front of my house is the largest in Durango. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, it’s the mother of all apricot trees.

However, it’s been a few years since she failed to produce anything but a smattering of fruit, much to my delight. See, I am all for live and let live, but last time this tree had a banner year, I found myself shoveling sticky orange goo from all outdoor surfaces for weeks on end. And then there was the smell – I imagine not unlike the stench of one too many apricot brandy apertifs rapidly rejected from a disagreeable stomach.

 

So, when the tree exploded this spring in a profusion of white blossoms and audibly buzzed from the bees drunk on its nectar, I knew I was in trouble. I watched for weeks in horrified anticipation as the tree started to sag from the dizzying amount of small green orbs. The shovel was put on stand-by for when my neighbors began wiping out on the orange slip ’n’ slide that was once a sidewalk.

 

At first, as the fruit began to ripen, the mitigation efforts were successful with just some intermittent grazing. It helped that the family dog, who was recently put on a diet, developed a hankering for the kamikaze fruit as well.

Then all hell broke loose (with the tree, not the dog.)

 

As if on cue, the heavily laden branches unleashed their bounty in an all-out blitzkrieg, making it unsafe to even stand under the tree without protective head wear. Even the mutt gave up and cowered from the onslaught on the safety of the porch.

 

And that’s when reinforcements arrived. I’m not exactly sure how it works, but there seems to be some sort of secret apricot morse code out there that only true, diehard apricot freaks can hear. Or maybe it’s a smell thing, like Steve Martin in “Roxanne,” but within minutes of that first fruit splatting on the street, they came running.

 

It’s been a miraculous, if not entertaining, spectacle to witness. I can’t help but feel a little like a flood victim, stranded on her roof top with nothing but water for miles, and the National Guard shows up in a lifeboat. Or in this case, buckets, tarps, ladders and long-handled fruit-pickers.

 

I don’t know who most of these people are, nor do I care. In my eyes, they are heroes, saving me from a slow, sticky, odoriferous death by apricot.
“Please, take as many as you can!” I plead before they can even get up my stairs and ask permission. (Which I really do appreciate, the asking, like maybe I might have an empty silo somewhere in which to store them all.) In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve even hugged a few – but I stop at hanging onto the legs as apricot mush on the knees is extremely difficult to remove.

 

I somehow feel secure knowing that at any hour of the day, there will be at least two or three soldiers of sustainability camped out under there, or a ladder with a strange pair of legs disappearing into the canopy.

 

And I must admit the social aspect has been enjoyable as well. (OK, go ahead and say it, I need to get a life.) For the last few weeks, my tree has been the hottest hangout in Durango. In fact, you should hear some of the pick-up lines (“Your dehydrator or mine?”) I’ve even thought about serving cocktails, but not sure if that would be a good mix with the ladders, slippery surface and sharp objects.  

 

Alas, for the most part, everyone is there for the same reason. They like apricots: dried apricots; apricot fruit leather; apricot jam; apricot muffins; apricot chutney; apricot cobbler; apricot pie; apricot paper weights; apricot brandy and yes, apricot wine (not to be confused with April Wine, the ’70s Canadian rock band.)

 

Even so, it was this last prospect, as well as an idea for chocolate-covered apricots, that piqued my interest. As such, I finally decided to put down my shovel, threw on some old shoes and join the masses in the muck.

 

Perhaps, after years of fighting it, that apricot tree had finally sunk its roots into me. For the next few hours, me, the kids  and even the dog joined a few fellow apricot scavengers for an all-out code orange assault. By the time we were done, every receptacle in the kitchen had been filled, including the dog, who was monitored closely for the next 24 hours for signs of intestinal distress.

 

Maybe it’s our primal hunter-gatherer instinct, but adrenaline surged as I hauled my bounty into the kitchen for god knows what. Then, I did what any self-sufficient modern hunter-gatherer would do – I consulted the Google sage. Which did nothing but convince me that I most definitely should not attempt anything that involved pages of pesky instructions or special equipment. (Believe it or not, making one’s own wine is a lot more complicated than what you see on “Beverly Hillbillies.”)

 

Instead, I opted for the path of least resistance and for the next several hours slaved over a lukewarn convection toaster oven. When all was said and done, I had taken my hours of toil and trouble and turned several large bowls brimming with fresh, ripe fruit into one small, compact tupperware full of hard, shriveled “apraisins” as I called them.

 

OK, so they weren’t the most appetizing (the kids refused to touch them because they did not have the day-glo hue of the fakey dried apricots at the supermarket.) But they tasted pretty darn good (the dog agreed.) And on top of that, I probably saved a whole $3 after deducting for the electricity used to run the toaster oven for several hours. But as far as I was concerned, they were worth their weight in gold. And I was convinced that someday, in the deep, dark depths of winter, I’d pull out my little baggie of golden sunshine crack, and people would be begging me for just one bite. Which I might oblige, for a sip of their apricot wine.

 

– Missy Votel