Though unknown to Johnny Appleseed, Cortlands (developed in a lab in 1898) are a must. From palate-saving Red Delicious in Vietnam to three-star asparagus in Paris. Some years ago on the road west through Pennsylvania, we noticed a billboard that announced, ​“Twenty miles to The World’s Worst Apple Pie!”This, it seemed, was marketing genius, as it surely tickled the curiosity of Interstate drivers. My wife Suzanne and I were two of them and couldn’t possibly pass up the invitation. What we found: The buttery crust cradled a stack of Cortland apples, topped by fresh whipped cream, and served by a waitress who explained that the unusual promotional message had lured a ton of customers every autumn.That little traveling tale, then, comes in useful all these years later as, in honor of the onset of Connecticut’s own apple season, I present in this space tips on how to make the world’s worst applesauce.The PurchaseLast Saturday, we drove once more to the CitySeed market near Wooster Square, where the farm owners hawked the last of the summer bonanza: native tomatoes, berries, and the disappearing sweet corn that, because it was his last Saturday selling it, the seller tossed in an extra ear, gratis.Then I noticed the overlap of seasons. Certain species of apples ripen in the late summer. So we are accustomed to buying Macouns and McIntoshes. Yet here I saw a bin of Cortlands, not often available in the first week of September. These are my go-to apples, the ones that have sustained family and friends who have looked forward to the world’s worst apple sauce over many years. The fruit tends to be big and semi-sweet, perfect for cooking. The PeelingIn the film ​“Sleepless in Seattle,” Meg Ryan is peeling an apple while the soundtrack plays, ​“In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” Her intent is to reach the pinnacle of peeling: removing all of the skin in one long piece instead of a dozen small strips.In my years of peeling apples, I have never matched her expertise. But I get the attempt.​When faced with eight large apples to address, here’s what goes through my mind: ​“Maybe I’ll take a rest after doing four.” This fits in with an attention deficit disorder that has never been officially diagnosed. But then that’s part of why I make applesauce. I remind myself, ​“Concentrate, fella. Don’t leave in the middle.”It’s true that as I peel, I think of what got me to this kitchen counter. I remember my father, the arbiter of the apple, who climbed up a stepladder in the Connecticut Western Reserve (northeastern Ohio) back in the 1950s, to determine what Winesaps (popular in the Midwest) were worthy of being selected for the bushel below. He tossed me the winners. We were a team. That’s one of joys of applesauce-making tedium. Memory. CoringOne memory is of the arrival of crates of Red Delicious. This is not something that in ordinary times I would salivate over. Red Delicious are misnamed, red though they are. And yet, on that particular day in the late fall of 1966, their appearance stunned me and heartened me.As the U.S. Army lieutenant in charge of the food supply for the central part of Vietnam, I had until then been unable to have my soldiers and native workers load cargo trucks with fresh fruit from the states. Most of the meals had been made from 10 cans of meats, vegetables, and starches. To employ a foodie word: Yuck.So when the Red Delicious shipped from Washington state to a remote location near the South China Sea, and when I opened the first crate, I spread samples around to my crew, and then grabbed one for myself. Winesaps and McIntoshes be damned. This was a feast the taste of which I remember these 58 autumns later.Food is that way. It is the stuff of the soul, and of memory. I have a photo I took after I came home from the war and, celebrating my return with no physical impediment aside from persistent case of crotch rot, went off to Paris, where I had lunch in a three-star restaurant. The salmon and white asparagus at Le Grand Vefour cost in today’s tab the equivalent of $400. But worth the three-star experience.As for the coring of the Cortlands, I rely on a tool made for such a task. Despite the practice I’ve had over the years, though I am pretty reliable about digging into the fruit at the right place, I’m sometimes all over the place at the bottom end. So seeds may still be inside, giving me a chance to curse at myself before removing them. The SlicingIn the streaming hit ​“The Bear,” referred to by the TV wizards as a ​“comedy” but often grueling to watch, everyone in the kitchen is granted the title of Chef. And each one of them subscribes to the notion that a Chef should be able to carry out slicing without having to call the EMTs. They do this by turning the top half of their fingers inward. And I try to remember their expertise as, sensing that the end of the whole process is approaching, my excitement level rises. I think about the miracle of the Cortland. That it was developed in 1898 in an experimentation station in New York State, and introduced to eager applesauce makers in the fall of 1915. Which means – yikes! – we are celebrating this year the 109th anniversary of the species. A parade, I’m sure, will break out at any moment in downtown Cortland, N.Y., the place where these apples originated.I remind myself: ​“Take your time. Take care to cut the apple into sections that are roughly equal, but still a bit chunky. We’re not trying to do a Mott’s job here, create a smooth and tasteless and sugary nothing. We need some character to the product.”In The PotThree ingredients enter. The slices, a hefty sprinkling of cinnamon, and just enough water to cover the bottom of the pot. Not a drop of sugar is needed, as the apples themselves contain just enough. Most of the moisture will come from the apples as they cook under the lid. Then, it’s important to keep the focus here. As I turn on the stovetop to medium heat, I recall I really should stay with it the next 25 minutes as the mixture heats instead of going into the living room and trying to get to ​“Genius” on the day’s Spelling Bee game on the New York Times site that is inordinately time consuming. The reason I must think that is I recently ruined an Italian coffee pot by forgetting I’d put it on, and only remembering when the fire alarm screamed at me. After the concoction bubbles, it’s time to remove the lid, put the stovetop control on its lowest setting, and be patient as you wait for most of the moisture, but certainly not all, to dissipate. Soon, there it is. After it cools, dip into it. And experience the Joy of Worst.