Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've seen that episode of "Everyone Loves Raymond" and, believe me, I can relate to Marie's exasperated exclamation of "What are we going to do with all this fruit?" No. I do not "put up" fruit. I don't can, cake, or cobbler fruit. I don't dice, dehydrate, or decorate with fruit. For goodness sake, I barely EAT fruit.
But there it was.
A GIGANTIC box of pears. Was I envisioning a shoe box? I certainly didn't picture this cargo container. I don't even like pears. I peeked fearfully inside. Yup. There they were...individually wrapped like little pear presents.
Well...it was clear that this little problem was not going to disa-pear so I put on my coat, grabbed my bag, and then, being sure to lift with my legs, hoisted my box of pears into my arms. BIG mistake. I staggered beneath the weight of a zillion pears, listing to the left before slamming into the wall, Three-Stooges-style. For some reason, my instinct was to sacrifice my spine along with my dignity for a fruit that ranks 11th, AFTER mangos, for pete's sake according to https://firstwefeast.com/eat/ranking-of-fruits/ which included this dead-on description as "overripe pears taste like someone pre-chewed the fruit and then stuffed it back into an oblong skin sack." My friend and next-door-classroom neighbor, Kelly, came to my rescue if, by rescue, you count hysterical laughter and then larceny. After Kelly lightened my load by eight pairs, she alerted the masses to my dilemma. "I've never seen you eat a pear," my friend, Geri, remarked, observing my plethora of pears. "I don't like pears," I told her. She nodded. "Naturally. So of course you would spend your life's savings on an orchard's worth."
It was decided that I would have to Johnny Cash my way out of this problem...carrying my pears out "one piece at a time." I loaded my bag with a dozen wrapped pears and headed home, my heart heavy as I contemplated the zillions I'd left behind.
Brad was delighted with my delivery. "That's a lot of pears," he admitted, "but I can eat twelve pears, no problem." How on earth was I going to tell him? Was this grounds for divorce?
Suddenly, my phone rang. It was my friend Rachel. "Amy, I just wanted you to know that the kids made a fruit delivery for you after you left." Melon-choly, I slid to the floor. Happily crunching his pear, my husband looked at me. "What's wrong?"
So...much...fruit.
Rachel reassured me that her son would carry my fruit freight out to my truck tomorrow. "Rachel, we need a fork-lift. Adam can't carry that."
The next day, Adam...who is forever stuck in my mind in his former-4th grade-form...arrived and effortlessly picked up my crate of pears like a black-tied waiter carrying a tray of champagne at a celebrity gala. I quickly provided him with a description of my truck and he laughed. "Mrs. Mosiman, we filmed a video together with you dressed like a bee, driving the Titan while my friends and I pushed it down the road singing a parody of Be Our Guest." He delivered this soliloquy effortlessly while carrying a thousand pounds of pears. Usually, Adam and I only talk about the sandwich that he ate for lunch. He is passionate about his sandwiches.
Brad carried in the bountiful boxes when I got home. Our kitchen had transformed into a cornucopia. I wondered how hard it was to make those hats that the Chiquita Banana Lady wears. Those would make fun and unique gifts for the holiday. An edible arrangement that you could wear! Why, oh why, did I buy so much fruit? I must have succumbed to pear-pressure.
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