Forgotten apple trees hide out in the city's unpopular spots. They surge over the blackberry brambles, unrestrained by the grafted roots that stunt modern apple trees. When I find one on a walk, I remember that some pioneer once loved a little cabin here, or at least enjoyed an apple on the latrine before tossing the core down the hole. The pioneers are gone, but the trees remain. Today, the apples fall onto the sidewalk where they are scooped up and thrown by teenagers and other irresponsible people. Those fruits eventually roll into the gutter, where they are crushed by cars. The apples that manage to fall into the brambles are consumed by ambivalent racoons.

Not that these apples deserve more. They are not very tasty. Had they been culled earlier in the season, they might have grown big enough to fill your hand. But no one knows their lineage, their proper care. So their apples fall unnoticed, small and astringent, filled with bugs and covered with scab.

My father in law has a tree like that. On a recent visit, I borrowed his ladder and filled a paper grocery bag. I bit into an apple. It was nothing special. It had the overripe texture of a Red Delicious but only about half the sweetness.

I brought the apples home. I peeled them, then cut out the seeds and bugs. I filled a crock pot with apple wedges, then added a cup of water, a cup of brown sugar, and some pie spices I had on hand. I turned the crockpot on low and left it all night. In the morning, I stuck an eggbeater right in the crockpot to puree the now-mushy apples. I added a little more sugar to taste. And you know what? It was better than store-bought.

Gourmet apple-sauce-makers will tell you to combine different kinds of apples in your sauce to maximize complexity and fragrance. They say the most important thing is to select the right apple. I'd take their sauce over mine any day. But there's something rewarding out of taking something nobody wanted and making something special.