I am so pumped because I’m at work, where I’m a “Student Assistant” (which translates to glorified receptionist and slave to the wicked printers that are always broken) and a nursing student just walked in and asked me if the computer lab was open. I told her it was and she said, “Oh, good… hey, you want some pears?” To which I said, “UM, YES” because I have a complicated love affair with pears. I love them, I pine for them but they scorn my affections. Basically, I stalk pears.
I guess the girl’s dad has a pear tree, lucky bastard, and is trying to get rid of the abundance of pears he has. So she was walking around with a huge basket filled with paper bags stuffed with pears. Seeing my enthusiasm for pears, she gave me all she had and I now have about 6 lbs of pears sitting prettily on my desk. I’m all jelloid just thinking about them.
I love fruit. I would marry it and have fruit children if possible. Grape children? Cute, and far less painful than conventional childbirth… as long as it wasn’t the whole bunch. Why am I imagining this? Anyway, I suppose my love affair with fruit came about partly because I grew up in Alaska, where all fruit has to be shipped in and thus good fruit is a rare treat. I love apple, peaches, nectarines, oranges, grapefruits, everything really but especially pears. But I also hate them.
I am convinced there is some sort of pear conspiracy because I can almost never get a ripe pear. It is either rock hard or dissolving into pear mush. I will buy pears and lovingly wait for them to ripen, smelling them and gently squeezing them every other seconds to check for ripeness. Then I will turn my back for 30 seconds, in which the pears will have a meeting and whisper, “Pssst, let’s all get way too ripe right now, mwa ha ha ha. The Untied Pear Association Against Sophie wins again!” And I’ll race back to the fruit bowl and sob as I see all the pears turned instantly from rock hard to mush, the pears silently cackling. Sometimes, in a glorious moment of triumph, I’ll be able to gobble down a pear mid pear-conspiracy meeting and that makes it all worthwhile.
I’m staring suspiciously at my bags-o-pears right now and determined that they in fact get properly ripe for once, even if it means guarding them day and night to prevent pear plotting.I have big plans for them that I hope to show case on the blog. The pear gingerbread recipe my sister gave me. Poached pears. Pear almond tart. Mrrrmmmmmph… *Homer Simpson-esque drooling noises*