When people starting a new orchard ask me to recommend good apple varieties, I
mention Redfield as one of my favorites. Their next logical question is, “Well how
does it taste?” When I reply, “Absolutely awful,” they look at me quizzically, and
we usually move on to other possibilities.
The fact is, I have come to love Redfield for a whole host of reasons other
than its fresh eating quality. And, if you think about it, that’s a good definition of
true love: You love a person (or anything) for ALL of its attributes taken together
(“for richer, for poorer”) and either embrace or overlook any shortcomings, which
after all are an integral part of the object of your affection. Limiting our love of an
apple to merely how it tastes when eaten out of hand is quite simplistic or reductive
thinking.
Suffice it to say that Redfield is the most ornamental apple tree I have ever
grown. All parts of it are beautiful, from the showy dark pink blossoms in the spring
to its reddish branches and bark and its bronzy dark green leaves. And the
medium-large fruits are attractive too. The skin is nearly covered with a dark red
flush (pomologists call this the “flag color” as opposed to the underneath or
“ground color” of the fruit). But the biggest surprise comes when you cut it open:
inside the flesh is red under the skin and creamy white closer to the core. It always
makes me think of the “zonal” color of Chiogga beets.
Bite into the coarse dry, acidic flesh, though, and you’ll understand why
Redfield isn’t a widely grown apple in most orchards. It is thoroughly unpleasant,
even unpalatable to most people when eaten fresh off the tree. But the apple has
been growing in popularity among American cidermakers in recent decades, and
when used in baking or preserving it’s also very useful.
Let’s go back in time, though, and investigate Redfield’s parentage. In the
early 1920s the New York State Agricultural Experiment Station at Geneva, NY
went a little “red” crazy in their breeding program, naming at least three apple
varieties after small villages or hamlets in the state. Redfield was named after a
village in Oswego County, and it was first developed in 1924 by crossing the huge
Wisconsin apple known as Wolf River with a hardy species crab with a tongue-
twisting name: Malus niedzwetskyana (in common parlance, Redvein Crab). The
tree was selected in 1935 and introduced in 1938 as an apple good for processing
into colorful sauce and jelly.
Around the same time, the folks at Geneva selected a “sister” variety, also
made from the same cross (Wolf River x M. niedzwetskyana) that they named
Redford (named for another village, not for the actor), which is very similar to
Redfield except that the blossoms are supposedly even larger and showier. (Not
having grown Redford myself, I cannot confirm this—though now I’m curious.) In
addition, there’s a red-headed stepchild from about the same time named
Redhook, which is a cross between the ubiquitous McIntosh and the Carlton apple.
Introduced in the same year as Redfield, the outer flesh of this apple is also reddish,
but the fresh eating quality is much better than either Redfield or Redford.
Redfield languished for many years in the station’s Geneva orchard,
unknown and largely unloved. Then, one day in the 1980s, my late cidermaker
friend Terry Maloney from western Massachusetts happened to visit the
Experiment Station and tried the apple. Rather than spitting it out and dismissing
it outright, he thought it would be worth growing and using to make cider. And the
rest, as they say, is history. Not only did the Maloney family start producing a
signature Redfield varietal cider that looked and drank like a rose wine, but their
trials and success with this unusual apple inspired other growers and cidermakers in
Franklin County, Massachusetts, and eventually farther afield. To the extent that
today there is even a cider bar and shop in Oakland, California, named Redfield.
I remember Terry every time I buy a Redfield cider or grind some of my
own apples to use in my sweet or hard cider blends. Terry’s son Field, who now
runs West County Cider, tells me that he still tinkers with the right amount of
Redfield to use in the blend, for though the color of the cider is an attractive ruddy
or coppery amber color, it’s best used in a blend with other varieties. When making
my own batches of hard or sweet cider, I’ve typically used about one-third Redfield
juice to two-thirds other apples. Some years ago I won a silver medal for a
Roxbury/Redfield cider at the Great Lakes International Cider Competition. So I
guess I’m doing something right.
One other thing I like to do every year is to bake at least one apple pie
exclusively with Redfield apples. Redfield is wonderful for many culinary purposes,
and the vivid red color holds up to cooking and baking. I once gave a piece of
Redfield pie to a friend who exclaimed, “Oh, you made me a cherry pie!” I told
her to look closer; the slices were so bright red that I could see why she’d make that
mistake.