Oh, pals, forgive me for a small lapse in posting. This is an extremely busy time even for candy-ass, wannabe farmers like us. All the pears came off our two trees this week. Last week, most of the apples from three trees were harvested. Five trees, you’re saying? You call that a harvest? Well, ok, small “h.” The amazing thing is just how many pears and apples come off those five old lovingly but amateurishly maintained trees. Lots for the deer, the horse, a neighbor, family, a pal or two and us, too. In addition to the pears you see on the table, there are several boxes out in dry storage.
And, oh, I know I say the same thing every year, but, pals, these pears are truly the food of the gods and goddesses. We wait until they show just a bit of yellow; we poke the small ends with our fingers to see if they give, just a bit; then we eat. What kind of pears are they? Who knows, exactly. They are trees from before the time that pears were grown to survive shipping. They are pears selected, planted and grown for taste by some unknown past residents here, maybe eighty or so years ago. Why am I going on and on about my dang pears? Because, dear pals, if you’ve never eaten a pear (or a peach or an apricot) grown without poison, strictly for taste, and allowed to ripen naturally, you MUST put that on your pre-bucket list. Please, don’t wait until you’re nearly dead, darling pals, to experience fruit so good it makes you silly. SO good, you wonder how anybody could think it was a brilliant idea to remove the flavor and texture so it could do better in the back of a truck.
Which brings us to the whole fertility thing. It’s not a big stretch to look at these gorgeous pears (and, Hedy reminds me, stick your snoot in there and give ‘er a sniff!) and understand immediately how they became symbols of fertility and objects of worship. As you take them from the tree, who gives them up with no apparent protest, even when you snap a branch, you can’t help but be filled with gratitude. That tree will go into a lovely, long, nap; burst into fragrant, pale pink paroxysms in March, and produce a new batch to pick at the end of next September. Even if that were the only miracle you got to witness in a lifetime, wouldn’t that be enough to make you a believer in something?
At our house, late September is also our time to celebrate an anniversary — Carol and Brian, who met in our backyard 12 years ago, have now been married six years ( a whole ‘nother story!) — and a couple of special birthdays, including Miss H’s fifth. Oh, wait, that’s another miracle, isn’t it? Oh, no, two more! Three more! Jeemeney, when the pears come in, I start sounding like one of those nutty TV preachers.
Gotta go run in the woods now. Talk to me.
Leave a Comment
- TUNE FARM
- MAKING IT IN SAN FRANCISCO: FAVOR