The New England autumn brings with it an urge to return, however briefly, to our agrarian roots. Nothing too fancy, mind you. It's not like we suddenly run out, pick up scythes and bring in fields of barley. Our activities are neither as strenuous or involved. We go apple picking.

I got to thinking about this last Sunday when I joined Pablo and his kin for a trip to North Andover with apple-picking in mind. True to form, the orchard was attached to a working farm, and in addition to being able to wander through the very picked over apple trees, there was a pumpkin patch to browse, a tractor ride around the grounds, and animals to gawk at. Don't get me wrong, i think it's a fine way to spend a day, but there is something peculiar about it, perhaps even absurd. Suburban families who throw their milk away if its still in their fridge the day it expires and think that chickens come pre-packaged as neat breast filets suddenly feel the urge to pick their own fruit and give food pellets to llamas.

For young couples as yet unfettered unblessed with children, Apple picking is viewed as "romantic". I used to think that maybe there was some pastoral appeal hardwired into our consciousness, but that itself may be a romantic notion. Lately, I've been wondering whether it's just a means of easing us into nesting impulses, a kind of elder "playing house" that is just unstructured and non-committal enough to still feel like fun.

This is about where you tell me that I think too much.