JMQ! another funny post

pear

Dear A Pear,

I have some things I’d like to get off my chest. This applies mostly to the Bosc, but I say to Anjou, Bartlett and Comice, you too should take note, as some of the following points apply to you as well.

You’re not a sporty fruit. You don’t shine. You look like you may have at one point, as if the salty sea winds have dulled your once regal luster to a now lifeless patina. You are never featured on slot machines, and your inclusion in salads sends a strong message; that this dish is going to be funky, and will almost definitely include walnuts. I never want to eat you after a game of touch football.

You are the Springsteen of fruits. You’ve never sold out. Never went seedless, never came smaller. There’s no pear nano. Nobody ever really figured your flavor out for candy replication. Sure, Jelly Belly has tried, but it’s not even close, and looks too much like the watermelon one. When you are juiced, your only purpose is to back up more expensive and exciting extracts. And still you never complain.

Your bulbous shape and coarse skin make you very difficult to eat without a knife. I have tried on occasion, and the only outcome is a very sore inside of my upper lip. You are secretive. What aren’t you telling us that you might know? Do you know marijuana? If there were one fruit that was sent to Earth from another planet to study us humans, it would be you. (Wink.)

You are the stillest of all fruits. Your heavy base says “I’m staying right here!” and you don’t roll very well. I think this is why you are always featured in paintings of still life. You keep everything really, really still. In fact, I wouldn’t take a painting of fruit seriously if you weren’t there as the father figure of the bowl. I would say to myself “how do I know those fruits didn’t just come to a stop moments before the painting had begun?” And then I’d see the pear and just nod. And believe.
I’ve never heard anything desirable described as being “pear shaped”. You are a two-dollar bill, an almost accidental inclusion into the mainstream culture of nature’s bounty. But you don’t make a big fuss, as if someone’s bound to notice you and send you back to the crude, wooden table at which blood oranges and persimmons sit quietly. You got a real good head on your shoulders.

Don’t go changing any day soon, a pear. I get you.

I just get you.

Frankenstein

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