I love pears.  My mother does not.  She hates pears, at least fresh ones, so she never bought them when I was growing up.  We only ate canned pears, as far as I can recall.

I think it was in my 4th year of college, when I lived in an off-campus apartment and started cooking for myself, that I first bought fresh pears.  Buying pears felt like an act of rebellion.  Pears seemed like the forbidden fruit.  They certainly had that effect on me — one bite and I never turned back.

To this day, choosing, buying, eating pears is for me a sensual delight.  I love that slightly rubbery feel that tells me the pear is perfectly ripe — firm yet velvety.  I leave the market full of anticipation, and at home I dig the pears out of the bags before I even begin to put the rest of the groceries away.  I love the feel of the knife gliding elegantly through the perfectly ripe flesh, that same gliding feeling between my teeth and the sweetness of the juice being welcomed on my tongue.

The artist in me loves the colors that pears come in, particularly the green of D’Anjou pears that reminds me of spring even on the grayest fall and winter days.  A bowl full of green, red, brown and gold pears is autumn — or even Christmas – in a bowl.  In fact, I have a box of Christmas fabrics in all these colors waiting on my studio table right now for the right quilting project.  I think it’s time to go play — right after I finish my pear.

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