I felt as I peeled that it was a properly grown up thing to do – because it took a sharp knife and a steady hand; and because it was what dad would do, with his short bladed grafting knife, flattened at the end to open the slit bark and insert the cutting.
This was the knife – razor like and lethal – that I knew I was never to touch.
All my life since, apple peeling has retained the sense of something tricky, possibly dangerous. To peel the skin whole, a feat, a craft, a mark of adulthood.
The childish pleasure of eating the peelings hasn’t left me either.