Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Picking Cherries


... does a divot mean there is a worm in this cherry? ...

 a bucket and cherry and a question about the worm hole

... a cherry here and a cherry there ...
This year Glen told me that all of the cherries on the trees his family planted, belong to Dave Wood.

Dave sprayed the ground around the trees in the spring so that the fruit would be perfect. And the fruit was.

 I walked by the trees many times, eating cherries long before any of them were ripe.

... surrounded by goodness ...
My perfect summer memory is the time I ate cherries for two days straight.

I must have eaten something else that year, but I can’t remember anything but the cherries.

... cherry earrings ...
The taste of a warm cherry, right from the tree, the juice spilling out and having to be wiped from my chin.

So I thought of that this year,  practising again the spitting skill.

How far can a pit actually be spit?

... will both of these twin cherries stay on my ears?  ...
I watched a cooking show on how to make the perfect cherry pie.

The pulp of 3 plums, pureed and strained was to be added to the blended cherries.

Half blended and half still whole. I was taking down copious notes, as well as recording the programme.

Now I know it is much easier to go to the web and find someone else who has done this, and put the recipe on their blog – attributing it, of course, to the cooking show where they also were trapped by the beauty of that recipe.

I was torn between wanting to eat all of the cherries and making a cherry pie with some of them.

... on the ladder and in some shade ...
Rebecca said, “If you want a cherry pie, just go buy the cherries at the store and make it.”

 I don’t know what put me off about that. I had to think – do I really want a cherry pie at all.

Or is it the fact of picking them from a tree and putting them in a pie – the fact that no money changes hands.

Is that what interests me in the pie idea?

The cherries were picked.

We ate what we could.

We didn't pick enough to make a pie this year.

Arta

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