Young G has discovered apples as objects encountered on trees, which may be detached therefrom. She’ll grab one and pull, but in general isn’t strong enough to get one herself and needs a hand. We’ll usually pull one off for her and shudder as we rotate it to discover the black specks and the wormhole, and she’ll clutch it, enraptured, to her breast. As she’s carried back to the house, she’ll try to explore its properties with her mouth, impeded by parental fingers.
She has to endure a moment of separation from the prize while it’s scrubbed and the nasty bits chopped off.
Today I held the apple against my breastbone with my chin as I tried to lower her onto the playmat. She held to the apple with both hands, dangling from it to the last as until gravity got the best of her and she had to relinquish it.
Returned to her, cleaned, with juicy facets and hand-hold niches cut into it, the unripe cooking apple is ravished.