For many baby boomers, we are at a stage of life where we can better appreciate the experiences of our years. Some call it “smelling the roses.” BoomerCafé publisher and co-founder David Henderson finds fun with friends enjoying the bounty of an apple orchard in New York.
The moment our plane touches down nearly every autumn and we reunite with old friends in upstate New York, conversation quietly shifts from exchanging views on current events in the world to a loftier, far more primal level of talk. We get down to the serious talk — Saratoga apple cider donuts. That’s why inevitably our car heads toward Schuylerville, New York, and the place where the best apple cider donuts on earth are made with loving care, and entirely by hand.
The place is actually called Saratoga Apple, on New York’s highway 29 east of Saratoga Springs. Apple orchards have flourished in this area for decades and maybe that’s the secret. Saratoga Apples uses the cider from their own apples for the donuts. Heck, their store and warehouse are full of large wooden crates this time of year, topped to the brim with apples. You can’t go wrong with the donuts they produce.
Then, our discussion gets serious! How many donuts dusted with organic sugar shall we buy, and how many plain? A dozen each seems a good place to… well… begin. It’s a near-spiritual experience savoring apple cider donuts. The lady at the cash register suggests a bag of seconds, donuts that came out a bit misshapen yet just as delicious. Sure. It’s only $4.
Mind you, I have sampled apple cider donuts elsewhere and nothing can compare. Nothing. Most donuts are too cake-like, too puffy, too much the typical texture of a donut. Heck, I visited a place that uses cake mix together with apple juice of unknown origin and the donuts are … well, I took one bite and pitched it in a bin.
Okay, maybe it’s a stretch to call these apple cider donuts made in an old warehouse and store an “addiction,” but “serious craving” to experience the bliss of apple cider donuts pretty much describes it. That is, until I’m reminded that my waistline has had enough.