Tuesday, 8 March 2016

A Pear Well-Travelled

I picked this pear out of the fruit bowl because there was a tiny spot of decay no bigger than the nail of my little finger. I don't like waste and don't mind blemishes or imperfections, they add character.  When I eat a pear, or an apple for that matter, I eat the lot.  All that is left at the end is a stalk - where the fruit clung to the tree. Even the calyx, the little black gritty bit - remnant of the flower, is consumed. 

So I put the fruit into my rucksack encased by a plastic pot which offered some protection, but my companion for the day was jostled and disturbed, an unwitting follower of events. Bruised, aged and some might say spoiled, the pear came home again, uneaten. 

With a knife to hand I sliced off the deeper decay and was still able to enjoy the sweetness and taste. 

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