I CAME OF age in the 1960s, heyday of the hippies, but I never was a hippie. Didn’t suit my personality.
So it feels strange now that I am harvesting organic pears, tons of them, more pears than we can easily dispose of.
We don’t do anything to make them organic. We don’t fertilize with donkey poop. We don’t light incense. We don’t smudge. We don’t howl at the moon on summer nights.
It’s what we don’t do that makes them organic.
We do nothing.
We have a pear tree that is perhaps 25 feet high in the yard. It was already planted when we purchased the property. We also have a sour orange, a peach and a loquat. But it’s the pear that provides most Hacienda fruit.
Some years the peach gives the pear a run for its money, but the peach is unpredictable. Some years, nada.
The pear is steady, reliable.
We pick up and haul away incredible quantities of pears. We give them to relatives, amigos and acquaintances.
You will notice two things about our pear:
One, it’s not shaped like a pear. Two, it’s butt-ugly. Of course, being butt-ugly adds to its modish allure. It would likely warrant a high price at Whole Foods.
You’d want to buy brie and skinny crackers.
In spite of its shape and a face like Danny Trejo, it’s quite tasty. I ate the one in the photo after snapping the picture.
Felipe Zapata: organic pear farmer and accidental hippie.
* * * *
(Note: Photo is the first here with my Fujifilm Finepix F850exr, a sweetheart of a pocket camera with a 20X zoom.)