Jam, Tarts, Pies, Wine, Syrup….

Last night we drove from work to an orchard south of Medford and picked 56 pounds of cherries.

Fifty. Six. Pounds. I cannot explain this need for excess. This amounts to about 12 gallons of cherries, and took an hour to pick. The plan is to sit in front of Babylon 5 with large bowls and Ziplock bags and pit, pit, pit, every night until the cherries are gone, throwing the prepped fruit into bags and the bags into the freezer. This weekend we’ll build jam, and I’ll probably snag a few gallons for a small batch of wine and a large batch of cordial. This week, we have bags of cherries in our lunch. Yum!

I’m a little concerned about having 56 pounds of cherries around. Last time I had excessive amounts of fruit, it was pears, and the results … the results are still marked on the ceiling of where I was living at the time. [shrug] eh. Emotional scarring is fun, and sometimes produces a nice essay or two.

21 thoughts on “Jam, Tarts, Pies, Wine, Syrup….”

  1. I can’t imagine what excessive amounts of pears will do, but I bet it’s another of your wonderful poop stories! πŸ™‚

    Oh… and uhm… can I have some cordial??? please??? please please please? πŸ˜€

    1. “…wonderful poop stories”? Have I become that narrowly genre-specific? Egad.

      As for the cordial, I refuse to promise a liqueur I have not yet manufactured. The cherries may be made into a single batch of jam and then frozen, for lack of time / energy. But, if I do, I will be pleased to send you a bottle.

      1. YIPPIE!!!! πŸ˜€

        And no, but I have only know you for a short while, and in that short while have been some wonderful poop stories πŸ™‚

        1. I find that strangely unsettling. Perhaps I should divorce myself from relating anything that references the lower intestinal tract.

          Hm. No, no; the price would be too high. All humor stems from either the reproductive system or the alimentary canal. I can’t afford to give up an entire half of what is truly funny. *sigh* I shall, I suppose, continue to scoop the poop, and be known therefor.

          Ah, the burdens I must bear.

        2. Okay. I’ve just spent a bit of time going through my past entries, and the only things I can think of that might be considered “poop stories” (as I understand the phrase) would be Navarasso Island, which isn’t in this journal yet, and New Year, Same Shit, which was an email post, also not in this journal.


          What is a “poop story”?

          1. *looks around*
            *looks quite dumbfounded*

            Sorry… its been a busy day. Thats what I get for reading and responding but not exactly reading correctly.

            I was mixing you and someone else up >.>

            As I said, Its been a busy day…

            *cries* sorry ; ;

          2. No, no, no need to be sorry. I was concerned that I was relegated to Fecal Literature until my time to write had (snort) passed. And that would have just been too offal to contemplate.

          3. *snickers*

            Indeed. Such an outhouse of fecal matter could bring ones end more urgently forward. I couldn’t contemplate what back-door ideas would shoot from such a mind only concerned with such a movement!

            (I’m horrible at this, is much much better)

    2. The story I was referring to was a recently recovered essay from several years ago. I’ll be cleaning it up, making some fairly large modifications, and sending it out for publication sometime in the next month, I think.

      However. The work in progress is now flagged “friends” and is dated [Jun. 21st, 2005|01:02 pm]. Enjoy.

      1. It’s on our list of possible places to live in the future; it seems more likely that we could own an actual home in various parts of Oregon than almost anywhere pleasant in California.

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