This is what 32 quarts of applesauce look like:
Of course, first you start with this:
And you think you’ll be there forever washing and quartering and baking down and filling. But you won’t. Especially if you call your mom to ask a question and she hears the naked desperation in your voice and comes over armed with an extra burner and her yoga pants, a sure sign she’s ready to rock. And you’ll think warm thoughts of the friend (you know who you are) who loaned you the most amazing invention since salvation: the Victorio Food Strainer and who also told you to just freeze your sauce and avoid the hassle of canning. You’ll think of her especially when you singe all the hair off your right arm and burn your fingers for the thousandth time trying to get a lid out of the boiling water bath. You’ll remember how you told her you were hoping to channel your inner Marilla Cuthbert. How you were looking forward to rows and rows of jars filled with homemade goodness in your pantry. And you’ll almost call her to tell her you are the stupidest woman on earth for not freezing and would she consider allowing you to marry her food mill, but then it’ll be 9:22 at night and your kids will be in their beds and the kitchen will be gleaming and there will be thirty two jars of goodness lined up on your counter and you’ll know it was all totally worth it.
You’ll also feel a soft kinship to your ancestors who did this with every crop and for days at at time, storing up food for the winter. Unless your ancestors were very wealthy in which case they probably had their staff do it while they were playing wickets out on the lawn. Then you’ll wish you had staff so you could leave them to it and go play wickets on the lawn. But you’ll remember that you don’t know how and so you’ll settle for an afternoon spent putting up apples in a warm kitchen and a helping nanny-burd and a no-napping toddler and thank you for it.
This is me being real. Sauced.