I’m hard on boots.

I keep a pair of slip-on rubber boots by the back door. I like waterproof boots which keep my feet dry through dew, rain, snow and mud. I like boots that are almost knee-high so that I can stand in the pond and pull weeds. I like boots sturdy enough to stomp on electric fence posts, and not rip when a goat stands on my foot. I also like to buy my boots on sale because I know from experience that in no time at all they’ll look like this:

Those charming pink boots were bought (on sale!) in England in May. Only five months ago they were bright pink. They’re now cracked and soggy inside.

I’ve bought expensive boots; I’ve worn LL Bean boots and Muck boots, and I’ve even bought Coach rubber boots. In a few short months they all end up looking like those pink boots. Replacing boots is one of the costs of having chickens and goats. Manure eats away at rubber, sunshine dries and cracks it, and cold makes it brittle. If I weren’t tromping around outside with my animals, my boots would look pristine. Disreputable boots are an indicator of a life well-lived.

This morning, with no boots to wear, I mucked out the barn in my crocs. Goat “berries” smooshed on my socks, which were already damp from walking across the wet lawn. It’s time to go shopping for new boots.

Making applesauce is ridiculously easy. It’s so easy that at first I thought I wouldn’t bother showing you how I do it. But then I thought that it’s one of those things that if you haven’t ever done it, you might not know how.

You’ll need apples. If, like me, you live near orchards and it’s apple picking season, you’ll have your choice of varieties. Cortlands, romes, macouns, jonagolds and mactintosh. Some are tart, some are sweet, some are for baking, and some are for eating out of hand, but all are good for sauce. The only ones I don’t use are the delicious, which I find are not at all like their name, but are too sweet and often mealy.

Give them a good rinse under running water. Quarter and remove the cores. I use a paring knife for this, but if you have a favorite coring tool, use it. Put the apples in a large, heavy pot. Add one cinnamon stick. Pour in just enough water to cover the bottom by a scant quarter-inch. Turn the heat on low and cover.

You might wonder why we food writers love to say, “put in a heavy pot.” The answer is that a pot with a thin bottom conducts heat unevenly, often warps, and slow, long-simmered recipes will scorch.

Cook, stirring occasionally, until all is soft, which takes about one hour when on very low heat. Apples vary in juiciness. If the sauce sticks to the pot before becoming soft, add a touch more water.

The next step requires a food mill, which is a handy device which squeezes the fruit through fine holes and separates it from the skin.

I cook the apples with the skin on for a couple of reasons. First of all, I don’t have to peel them, which saves a lot of time. Secondly, the red peel contributes a cheery color to the sauce. This year’s apples were so ripe, moist and thin-skinned that much of it went right through the fine mesh, adding even more color and flavor. If you don’t have a food mill, you can start with peeled apples and can skip this step.

That’s it! Adding sugar is unnecessary (in fact, when I see commercial applesauce with added sweeteners it makes me wonder about the quality of the apples). Applesauce stays fresh in the refrigerator for a week, or you can freeze it to have on hand all year until next apple season.

If you have chickens, there’s one more step to making applesauce.

You’ll have a bucket full of cores. Take it out to the girls.

Put it in their compost area and listen to their appreciative clucks.

If you have goats, they might like apples, too. Or, not. Caper turns up his nose at the peels, but Pip loves them.

After cooking up that big pot of sauce and making two pies, I still have half a peck of apples on my kitchen counter. What should I make next?

Here in the United States we have an odd holiday called “Columbus Day Weekend.” Ostensibly, it’s to commemorate the West’s discovery of the New World. But, like most holidays, the date itself is unconnected to the actual event, and has been moved to a Monday to create a long holiday weekend. Hence, the words both “day” and “weekend” next to each other as if it makes any sense at all.

Here in New England, Columbus Day is really the “it’s autumn!” weekend, when hordes descend on orchards and farmstands to buy these:

and these:

However, some people in my family think that Columbus Day is actually “cider donut day,”

which, when you think about it, is a rather good excuse for a holiday.

I recently visited an elementary school library in southern California filled with second graders. They were already avid watchers of HenCam and had read Tillie Lays an Egg. With the use of an iPad and Skype, I took them on a tour of my backyard. They asked really good questions, like “how big is the Beast?” She cooperated by swimming right up to the camera. I showed them eggs in the nesting boxes and where the chickens sleep.

This week, I got a packet in the mail which had me grinning from ear to ear. This is why I do what I do.

I learned that the Beast might be a shark.

Or maybe she sneaks out in her top hat and goes dancing.

Candy, who gave a nose-twitching, face-the-camera performance, was a favorite.

Of course, “Tillie” (played by the actress Betsy) was the inspiration for many of the artists.

But, I have to say, that this letter was my favorite.

Not much of a picture, but I am touched by the words.

I’m hoping to visit this same school in the winter, when the snow is up to my knees. These southern-Cal kids have never seen snow. I can’t wait to see what they draw after our next tour of my backyard!

Old hen. Buffy is six. She hasn’t laid an egg for years.

Young hen. Amber is a Buff Orpington, Svelte compared to Buffy. She’s yet to lay an egg. Soon.

Old feet. Edwina’s feet are gnarly, scaly, and thick. The toes are too long. But at seven she’s still standing.

Young feet. Garnet’s legs are lean and smooth.

Old bottom. Philomena laid an egg today. Her energy goes into making eggs, not feathers.

Young bottom. Topaz has a pullet’s fluffy butt.

Old face. Edwina’s comb is thick and her wattles are pendulous and uneven. She’s seen weather, and pecking orders come and go.

Opal’s new face. She hasn’t seen much, not yet.

Old hen’s egg.  It’s thin and rough-shelled, and light in color. Pullet’s egg. It’s small, smooth, thick-shelled and deeply pigmented.

Both are good.