AutomnIt seems to me to be this stage of temperance with the smell of Apples wall in the sanctuary of the saint in his orchard.To the delicate ones who tear them to their respective apple treesI wanted to propose by this text a beautiful perspective.We press the apple to make known all his escapades which are all his possibilities of consumption.To crush it deposits under the sweetness of a compote.In thin slices, it disappears in apple quarters.It's granny pie or apple pie.The child in me initiates to his tasting the man.
