Maybe there's another state in our great nation where you can get a better cider mill experience, but I'll put my good money on Michigan, just the same.
Our family is on the long list of those who count a trip to the mill as an annual tradition. Doubtless there are those who make repeated trips.
I know of few places I'd rather be on a crisp fall Saturday morning than at the mill, eating fresh, warm doughnuts and sipping tart cider, just mashed.
I'm not a big fan of summer being in the rearview mirror, but fall makes me smile---though our falls lately haven't been as pleasurable thanks to excess rain and cold temps.
I like the same things you probably do---the colors, the crisp air, the nighttime bonfires, the FOOTBALL. Even the knowledge that winter is lurking behind autumn doesn't kill it for me.
Ah, but a trip to the cider mill is right up there as to why I enjoy fall.
We usually head up to Yates Cider Mill in Rochester.
I've written before in this space of my mysterious apple allergy that suddenly disappeared a couple years ago. So now I'm able to not only enjoy the cider---which I was always able to drink, despite the allergy---but also the fresh apples in all their tart deliciousness.
It's one of those rites of passage, a trip to the cider mill. The overall experience is just as good, if not better, than the food and drink. And that's pretty good!
There's a stream by the Yates mill, and I always marvel at the ducks bobbing in it, because you know the water is frigid. But that's why they're ducks, I suppose.
You can always spend a few bucks at the mill, because there's hot dogs and sausages and fudge---mmmm, the fudge---and several other apple-related food stuffs for purchase.
But you can also monitor your spending, maybe sticking to a couple bags of doughnuts and a half gallon of cider if funds are precious.
There's also the commute, which for us is straight up Dequindre. That's nice, too---pretty in its colors and with the added charm of a couple roadside fruit and veggie stands.
I imagine we'll venture up to Yates sometime in October, on a purposely picked crisp, sunny Saturday morning.
Does it get any better than that?