pounders. We finally realized all the squeezin's slurping we were doing warranted a full-blown gallon of the deep amber delight, and he delivered yesterday.This morning I said to Charles, "Doesn't that honey look wonderful? I'm thinking about just leaving it on the table, so we can enjoy looking at it."
"Ohhh no. That's not going to become another Stephenson's apple butter!"
"Why not? Wouldn't you pay $XX for a fine painting?"
"No. And we're going to eat it."
Well, actually, I was merely thinking of not poking it into the pantry right away. Man-oh, get a grip. I guess I've scarred him with aging apples.
Two Thanksgivings ago, Mrs. Piecrust brought me apple butter and pie filling from Stephenson's Apple Orchard. Most people who grew up where she and I did know the orchard and have a fondness for it. When Mrs. Piecrust and her husband traveled from their western home in '06, to visit family and friends, they brought me a painting from an artist in our little hometown and tasty delights from the renowned orchard in a nearby city.
All have been gracing my kitchen...and driving my menfolk crazy. Not the painting -- no cuckoo noises over the chicken painting -- just the food I refuse to serve them and which taunts them daily from a lofty shelf.Some have suggested we eat the contents, and I refill the jars with colored water. While my middle name is MarthaNot, I still cannot swallow the concept of colored water as an apt decorative replacement for fat slices of apples and rich, brown opaque apple butter. 'Xcuuuse me!
Mrs. Piecrust, you now know we haven't eaten your gift; to do so would seem a near-sacrilege. We won't eat it...at least until we can no longer buy and sell.
That honey, though? We've no nostalgic or true decorative affections for it. It's goin' down!
For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be earthquakes in divers places, and there shall be famines and troubles: these are the beginnings of sorrows. Mark 13:8
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