Our house is walled chaos, and I’m not exaggerating.
That being said, we are making tiny, microscopic-organism-steps of progress. Like yesterday, when I unpacked that one box of books.
Every day I have a goal — and ne’er a single day has passed when my goal has been accomplished. For a few days, this bothered me intensely. Tim came home one day late last week, and was met at the back door with an odor of wifely discontent so foul that he immediately went into Spousal Fireman mode, working feverishly to talk me down off my ledge of insanity. But then something happened over the weekend, and I’ve somehow now embraced the disorder. I might never unpack. What’s the point?
My reaching this point of apathy zen with my current surroundings might have something to do with why, when my friend Shannon told me this weekend that she’d discovered a cherry tree in the yard of their new house, and that the cherries were ready right now, I decided to load up the kids and head over for a morning of picking. I’ve got nothing better to do, right?
But come on, people — cherries. On a real-live tree. I don’t know if I’ve ever even seen one (she had to point it out to me when I got to her house), since those aren’t the things of the deep south. She handed me a ladder, I set the kids up on a blanket with plenty of snacks, and I got to climbing. The cherries aren’t hard to pick — they come right off their stems (should I have kept the stems?), and within 45 minutes or so I’d filled a 4-quart bucket. The hardest part is getting to the cherries, since the ladder could only skirt the edges, and the lower branches had already been cleaned. It became amply clear to me why there’s such a thing as a cherry-picker.
And, I have to say: while it would be idyllic in its own sense to be enjoying this activity in an orchard amidst rolling hills, I was mildly thrilled by the fact that I was picking beautiful fruit from a tree located in the heart of the inner-city. This part of town isn’t known for its Starbucks on every corner, and I basked a little in the rough beauty of the scene. The cherries are sour — I think a bit fittingly — and will need to be baked into cobblers, candied, sweetened and dried, and the like. I’ve mentioned before my obsession with dried tart cherries, so that’s my first attempt — cooking cherries in sugar-water as I type.
As I type — sigh — still sitting on the toilet. I suppose reality will set back in soon, probably for the eventual good of our household. But it was a good escape for at least one morning, with the promise of cherry-laden distractions ahead.
This post is part of Wanderfood Wednesday at Wanderlust & Lipstick.