Or, a nincompoop in a pear tree.
I have no idea what I'm doing, but all of a sudden I'm the owner of a treeful of pears.
Bartlett pears. The kind that get ready to harvest in July, and — oh, hell! This is July.
I haven't harvested a single one yet. Those bastards are simply jumping off the tree. Every night.
The first week it was like two or three. Then eight. We averaged 10 jumps a night for almost a week, but now... Yesterday there were 34.
You never see them fall off the tree in the daytime, but each morning we go out and collect the jumpers. Somebody call the Golden Gate Bridge suicide watch. Or put a net up.
Fortunately, the pears that jump are just pre-ripe. If they ripen on the tree, I'm told, they'll rot. These have been green and firm, and when they land on the ground, they don't even bruise.
Then, a few days later, they turn yellow and fragrant and juicy. And I put them in a plastic bag, in the fridge.
We've eaten some. They're really, really good. But I'm not a baker, and I'm timid about canning. I will get around to it, I will. (There are quite enough left on the tree for me to work my courage up to this.) It's just that we're on the brink of do-or-don't time here. Either save the bounty, or throw the slime into the yard-waste can.
I want to save it. I do.
Also, I will give away many, many baskets of pears to wary (grateful?) friends.
Today I attempted pear cider. I got pear slush. It's yummy, but thick and foamy. Not something you'd want to ferment, or turn into vinegar. More like... brown slush.
What a delicious problem.