Sigrid lifts a crate of apples onto the picnic table, wipes her palms on her jeans and holds out a small jar. "Oh, you have to taste this, friend. First pressing of the year. I saved it." Oh, there you are, friend. The sun is low, the crates are full and the barn is warm. Come taste the first pressing with me, and tell me how autumn looks from your side of the hill.