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| © harrington |
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| © harrington |
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| © harrington |
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| © harrington |
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| © harrington | | | |
Welcome. Today was pear picking time. I field tested our new extensible pear (actually fruit) picker and was pleased with how it works. The yield of ripe(ning) pears was then cut up by my much better half and turned into pear honey and pear chutney. My daughter had made some pear honey about a week ago and I found it too sweet for my taste. She likes it and so does my wife. That's important. So is the fact that I get to feel like a real locavore, with fruit coming from the backyard, picked by my own hands holding our new fruit picker. We're trying to figure out how to move more toward permaculture and bioregional living from a fairly standard middle class pattern. Expect more reports along these lines in the future. For now, I'm focused on enjoying the process without being concerned about whether the outcome makes my mouth and stomach happy. For a somewhat different perspective on pears, try this poem by Brenda Hillman.
Trois Morceaux en Forme de Poire
Titled after Satie
I.
Three pears ripen
On the ledge. Weeks pass.
They are a marriage.
The middle one’s the conversation
The other two are having.
He is their condition.
Three wings without birds,
Three feelings.
How can they help themselves?
They can’t.
How can they stay like that?
They can.
II.
The pears are consulting.
Business is bad this year,
D’Anjou, Bartlett.
They are psychiatrists,
Patient and slick.
Hunger reaches the hard stem.
It will get rid of them.
III.
The pears are old women;
They are the same.
Slight rouge,
Green braille dresses,
They blush in unison.
They will stay young.
They will not ripen.
In the new world,
Ripeness is nothing.
Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served daily. Sometimes with poetry and pear chutney.
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