Let's make a sweet autumn drink together

The sky had changed into deep evening hues of orange and violet as Sherbert had enjoyed his well deserved rest on a hay bale. He had just woken up, and just as he was about to roll onto his back and admire the stars, Granny Rosette walked over, carrying a wooden bucket full of apples. Her warm smile carried a hint of mischief.

"Well, Sherbert," she began, setting the bucket down with a thud, "since you’ve been such a big help today, how about we make some fresh apple cider together?"

Sherbert shot right up, his rainbow wings fluttering with excitement. “Apple cider? Like, the real kind? From scratch?” His eyes twinkled as if Granny Rosette had just offered him a treasure chest full of shiny gemstones.

“From scratch,” she confirmed with a chuckle. “But it’s a bit of work. Think you’re up for the challenge?”

“Am I ever!” Sherbert exclaimed, bouncing onto his paws and flapping his wings hard enough to rustle nearby leaves.

Granny Rosette led Sherbert to a cozy little shed at the edge of the orchard, where a rustic cider press stood. The contraption was old but sturdy, with a big wooden barrel for the apples and a long crank for crushing them. Sherbert’s jaw dropped as he circled the press.

“This thing is HUGE!” he marveled, running a paw over the wooden crank. “How does it work?”

Granny Rosette showed him how to load the apples into the top of the press. Then she explained the crank’s purpose: to crush the apples, extracting their sweet, golden juice. “All you have to do is turn the crank. Sounds easy, right?”

Sherbert flexed his tiny stumpy arms dramatically. “I’ve got this!”

He hopped up to the crank and gripped it with his paws. “Okay, here we go! One... two... three!”

He threw all his weight into turning the crank…and it didn’t budge.

Granny Rosette hid a smile behind her paw. “It’s a bit tougher than it looks, isn’t it?”

Sherbert gritted his teeth, his wings flapping furiously as he tried again. “Tough? Nah! I’m just... warming up!”

The crank creaked slightly, and Sherbert squeaked with triumph. But as soon as he stopped to catch his breath, the crank spun back with a stubborn CLUNK.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Sherbert growled, adjusting his stance. He pressed his forehead against the crank for leverage and pushed with everything he had. Slowly, agonizingly, the crank began to turn. The apples inside the press let out a wet, squishy sound, and a trickle of golden juice started dripping into a waiting bucket.

“Ha! It’s working!” Sherbert yelled, his tail wagging with excitement and proudness. He turned to Granny Rosette with wide eyes. “Do you see that? I’m doing it!”

“I see it, Sherbert!” she replied, clapping her paws together. “Keep going, you’re a natural!”

Pushed by her encouragement, Sherbert kept at it. Each turn of the crank was a full body workout for the tiny Stelciar. His paws slipped a few times, his wings fluttered uncontrollably, and at one point, he almost toppled over. But he was determined.

By the time the last apple was crushed, Sherbert collapsed onto a hay bale, panting but victorious. “Who... needs... muscles?” he huffed. “I’ve got determination!”

Granny Rosette laughed and poured some freshly heated cider into two wooden mugs. The sweet, fragrant smell wafted up as she handed Sherbert a mug. “You’ve earned this, Sherbert.”

Sherbert sat up, taking the mug in his tiny paws. The cider was warm, golden, and inviting, and the first sip was like pure magic. The sweet and tart flavors mingled together on his tongue, and the warmth spread all the way to his wingtips.

“This is the BEST thing I’ve ever tasted!” Sherbert declared, his tail wagging. “It’s like... drinking sunshine!”

Granny Rosette sipped her own cider, smiling at the young Stelciar’s enthusiasm. “It’s even better when you make it yourself, isn’t it?”

Sherbert nodded vigorously, his cheeks puffed with a satisfied smile. The two of them sat together under the darkening sky, sipping cider and listening to the sounds of the orchard, the rustling leaves, the chirping crickets, and the gentle hum of the cider press as it settled.

As the stars began to twinkle above, Sherbert leaned back, cradling his now-empty mug. “Granny Rosette, you know what?”

“What’s that, dear?” she asked.

“I think I was born to make cider,” Sherbert said dreamily. “And eat apples. And maybe drink more cider.”

Granny Rosette chuckled. “You’re welcome here any time, Sherbert