My sanctimonious apples

When you go to the supermarket, it's ok to judge people.  Well that's what I tell myself when I'm waiting in line at the checkout.  And no I never self serve, because that's their job not mine.  And unless they want to pay me as per their enterprise agreement to scan items like other employees - ain't going to happen.  Note, rant ended.  Almost.  In the checkout queue I can almost hear myself tut tutting (I'm getting so old) as the person in front unloads large bottles of soft drinks, shiny packets of 'snacks' as they love to call them now and countless other pre-packaged stuff that is as nutritious as the sole of your shoe.  Less actually.  At least that contains real dirt.  Currently I'm being pelted by apples from my driveway apple tree as I walk past.  This tree having predated my arrival has produced an abundant crop without much attention or intervention by me at all, it's sad to see people relying on pretend food when it literally grows on trees.  My home grown apples don't get stored in a warehouse, or sprayed by toxic gas to prolong shelf life, and in fact won't actually come into contact with a shelf at all.  It won't be slapped with a sticky label, particularly because I don't even know what variety it is...Pippin Something would be sticker if it had one.  But when you are in Tasmania, you have apple trees.  And when you have apples.  You have pie.  My pastry making skills are not good, but I'm not a fan of the frozen stuff, being judgemental of myself here.  So I battle the pastry gods and put together something to use up some of my apples.  There is something purely sanctimonious about cooking with your own produce.  You just get this warm smugness that comes from something grown and picked from your own backyard as opposed to something that's been a barcode on supply chain.  No judgement.