Hard to shake that cherry disposition
Every summer after the cherries have expired, I swear “Never again!” But as the seasons pass, forgetfulness coats my brain, and my struggles with the little red jewels fade.
Instead, a growing excitement emerges as I think of cherry pie, cherry cobbler and all things cherry. Forgotten are those aching limbs as I stretch on my 12-foot orchard ladder to gather the scarlet, elusive gems.
Forgotten is the inner quivering that starts at my calves and ends at my stomach when I take a peek at the earth beneath me, far below. Forgotten are those disgusting little fruit flies, that buzz around my head and my sticky arms, drenched in cherry juice, as I strain for the harvest. And this is only the trouble in the tree.
The next challenge comes with the endless process of pitting and, yes, disgusting as it sounds, checking for worms. The agonizingly slow work requires positions which my 60-something body does not condone, so backaches are an inevitable companion.
Then, the baking experience provides more tests of character. The crust looks flaky and is browning nicely, but 10 minutes are needed to complete the pie. Oh, no, an unpleasant smell escapes and smoke emerges from the exhaust. Even with a spillover pan in place, there is nothing more sticky and impossible to remove than burned-on cherry juice. (My carbon collection could get me in trouble with the green folks, I fear.)
So, at the end of a cherry day, my kitchen is a disaster. Sticky juice spots, mixed with ash and crust scraps litter the place. Every cupboard top is decorated, and most of my bowls, spoons, and utensils are in some stage of mess.
This is not to say that I’m in any better shape: sticky, itchy, with pastry patches on my hands and arms. And every itty bitty part of my body, from head to toe, aches. What a highlight of culinary bliss! And, you guessed it; here comes my husband, asking “What’s for dinner?”
Without hesitation, I sarcastically pop back with, “Cherry pie!”
In spite of it all, next year, you’ll find me right back on that ladder, picking away. I guess cherry juice gets into your blood. Or maybe, it’s a condition of the brain.