Is there anything more wonderful than seeing a sign like this?
My daughter Kassie passed this sign on her walk to school. The giant pear tree sets in front of a beautiful, old, white Victorian home, not far from her college. And I can't think of a kinder, more pleasant act of generosity than allowing the kids to pick a pear on their way to school.
Last spring we left our barren, suburban landscape and moved to a town - a real town - with parks and sidewalks and old Victorian homes with bushes and flowers, and best of all, pear trees. I feel like I've been transported from a sterile spaceship in outer space to mother-earth in all her glory. The grass is greener, the birds are chirping, and the sky seems bluer. It's the little things, like picking a pear on a warm, late summer afternoon that make me happy.
There was a part of me, however, that felt a bit timid about picking fruit from a tree that didn't belong to me. I was worried a gnarly branch would reach out and slap me and say "Stop eating my pears!"
The nice lady who I assume owns the house, came out onto her porch while we were there and said it would be okay to come back later with a ladder and pick more fruit, as all the lower branches had already been picked clean. And the tree was loaded. It would be a shame for the pears to waste.
So you know where I am headed tomorrow. Does anyone have a good recipe for fresh pears?
Perhaps I should take the nice lady a Phyllo Pear Tart.