by Jake Phillips Liana Mikah We take the back roads, point out the windows at reds and yellows, the arch of autumn guiding us to the orchard. Let’s buy a bag at the store, pretend we drove the hour  — but no, you say, it’s just not the same. So we go, get a half peck bag and wander the hills and fields, get lost questing for Fuji and Gala, and I subject us all to a day’s worth of gay-la jokes. Soft and steady, we are not. We knock a ton of fruit loose, take down whole branch