I recently had one of them there life-changing moments.
I have lived a long time telling people, when asked my favorite fruit, that the mango, at perfect ripeness was the cat's meow . . . the bomb . . . the shit man! However, the mango needed to stay on its toes cause right off'n its left shoulder and running hard was the paw paw.
Back earlier in the year I watched that Robert Hart video about forest gardening and I was hooked. I had t'be the first kid on my dirt road to have his very own. I spent months researching. My wife bought me Volumes 1 & 2 of Edible Forest Gardens by Jacke and Toensmeier. I laid awake long into the night dreaming dreams that I had not had since looking at the toy section of the Sears Catalog as a kid back in the 70s. My brother and I wore that thing out and tested our boy-hood strength against each other getting dibs on that thing so we could pour over the decision of what to ask Santa for for Christmas.
And now, instead of sugar plums dancing in my head, it was Santa Rosa plums . . . and Jujubes . . . and kumquats . . . and all the succulent rest of the whole zone 8a compatible fruit kingdom. Save on ooooone little thing. . .
No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get excited about pears.
My parents have had a pear tree out back of their house since before I was a twinkle in Pop's eye. Them dang things were a'ight for canning. They were SO damn hard. You couldn't bite into the dern things. One thing they did do though is they made WONDERFUL target practice for .22s. But some of them food forest gurus said that pears ought to be included in a food forest so when I went to my local nursery to buy that first bunch of trees that were to become my overstory, I bought one of every kind the feller caried: Bartlet, Keiffer, and pineapple.
"yippee . . . I got pears. Now I have to plant the infernal things."
So now that the mind is all about fruit, I figure I ought be tasting as many different kinds of fruit that I can to make sure I can at least eat the stuff before I go out and put too much effort into growing it. So we're coming home from church a few Sundays ago and we stop by the pitiful excuse we have for a grocery store (I live WAY out) and there, on the shelf before me, was a pear. I looked at the name, thouth to myself, "Whatever. I'll buy one just to try it. After all, what's $1.79/lb to the rich?"
I throw it into the bag along with the buttermilk, rush back out of the store and make the drive home. We et lunch and were laying around the house when I remembered the pear. I got it, whurped out the yeller handled Case pocket knife and the sharp blade cut through the pear's flesh like it'uz made o'butter.
Then I noticed some juice running down my forearm. I'm thinking, "Damn thing must be rotten. Look at all this damn juice coming out it. What the hell, I'm a Marine, I can choke down one bite just to confirm my suspicions about not really liking these dern things."
I slid about half the slice into my used-to-be-pie hole (more on that in a minute) and bit down like I was biting into one of my parent's pears. Which was just over-kill. The friggin juice exploded outta that thing. And then the flavor hit me. And then the texture cried out for primacy and my mind was all awhirl as these three traits competed for my attention. Something this good can only be truly enjoyed if shared. I let my wife get her a slisch. I had to choke to the ol' girl to get the thing back from her.
I ate the rest by myself, taunting my wife the whole time, "HA! Don't you wish you had three times the upper body strength of your spouse like I do? GIRL! . . . HA!"
Figgerin, "What the hell? I got the pear. What else is there?"
Once finished with this culinary orgasm, I put the core into my jaw like a chaw of tobakker, and retrieved the little sticker that had been placed on it in the store and read that it was a D'Anjou pear. I had just experienced a hunk of dietary divinity, and edible ecstasy so profound that I knew it had to be a fluke. Something this good, available at even our lil'ol rinkie-dink, po-dunk store, . . . that I had never heard of . . . shooooot, this just had to be some sort of genetic fluke. No WAY the rest of those pears could taste THAT good.
So I go to work the next day and on the way home, I pick up six more. I rush home, tore into one and it tasted exactly the same as the first. Something this good has to be shared, so I took one to my parents to sample and I reserved one bite for myself to make sure the quality was still there and yes, it tasted just like the others.
I sampled or ate whole all six of the ones I bought and the quality was consistent.
So I went back the next day and cleaned the shelf off. I bought 36 or 38? I can't remember which. So many pears at one time certainly drew the attention of stores employees. Probably their biggest pear sale ever. They asked for what reason was I buying so many. I asked, "You ever taste one?"
They confessed that they had not.
I told them they ought to.
They didn't
We polished off all 36ish pears over the course of a week and when I went back again, they had apparently put out the rest of their stock.
I wiped em out again.
With no more D'Anjous available from my only known source, I branched out and stumbled into the Bosc pear and then my wife shows up with some Apple Pears. Not quite as good as the D'Anjou but damn close which means DAMN good. I understand now what they mean when they refer to something as being a "dessert pear." Cause that's what we eat every night after supper. I had a pear and peanut butter sandwich for lunch today.
The dang things are amazing.
I'm 44 years old.
I see pear trees all over the place.
One of the best varieties of pear currently in production (the Warren) was discovered not one hour from where I live.
How the HELL did I miss this thing? For 44 flippin years?
So now, I'm a pear-a-holoic. I no longer have a pie-hole but rather a PEAR-hole. Mango? Who eats them anymore? They're so . . . pre-pear. Instead of forcing myself to put pears into my food forest, I'm now kicking shit out left and right to make room for more pears. If I wouldn't just feel all guilty about mono-cropping, i'd just plant 1-2 specimens of every variety of pear I could find that even MIGHT grow in my region.
And then it hit me like a ton o'bricks . . . and I got like all . . . depressed. See, being born and raised in South Mississippi means several things. One of which is church. And in church you learn about the Garden of Eden . . . paradise. And we were always taught that was where God stopped for a time and paid special attention as he painted His Sistine Chapel in shades of green for his special creation.
And now I'm thinking that all He did was planted a pear orchard.