Please join me during the month of June while I share some gardening memories.
Every summer after the cherry season ends, I swear “Never again!” But as the next season returns, forgetfulness sets into my brain and my struggles with the little red jewels fades. 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 twelve-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 far beneath me. Forgotten are those disgusting little fruit flies, buzzing 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 aging 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 ten 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 stickier 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 messy state.
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, innocently 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. If nothing else, maybe my sufferings with cherries will eventually lead to character building. As Paul says in Romans 5: 3-4,
“. . . and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”
As this scripture applies, I must be about the most hopeful character that ever picked a cherry. Besides which, I guess cherry juice gets into your blood. Or maybe, it’s a condition of the fruit-addled brain. At least I can make a cherry pie.
Dianna
Sharing the Fruit of Maturity
