First of all, let's make one thing very clear: the only reason these apples don't all have bite marks in them is because I picked them while my children were napping. At any other time, my son, whose first repeated word was "apple" (or, more accurately, "b'apple") and my daughter, who seems to have a sixth sense for when I might be out picking something in the garden without her, would immediately have taken two or three bites out of each specimen, then either set it down to be forgotten or actively cast it aside as no longer novel enough to warrant attention. Each fruit would then later be rediscovered by yours truly, in an oxidized-brown, dirt-covered, fruit-fly-swarmed state, hopefully just on the ground in the garden somewhere and not, as more often happens, returned to the hands of my son, the apple zombie, who since learning to walk in a beginner's gait resembles nothing else so strongly as he shuffles around gnawing an old corpse of an apple and muttering "b'apple ... b'apple ..." under his breath.
So it is only during these few moments while both are sleeping that I am free to entertain the silly, passing flights of fancy I would normally swat like mosquitoes. Fantasies like: I'm a successful orchardist, calmly searching his trees for potential prize-winning fruits for the State Fair; or, I'm a visionary plant breeder who has just successfully cross bred apples with pumpkins, creating a massively profitable quintessence of Fall; or, I'm a normal person who can go pick an apple and eat it without feeling the need to write about the experience. Ridiculous stuff like that. You can see why I'm normally grateful for the distraction my children provide.
Speaking of which, the zombie stirs. I better go hide these beauties and then forget about them like everything else I try to keep away from the kids.