I used to love raspberries.
I probably would have paid more for my house had I known it had raspberry patch in the backyard.
I didn’t really discover them until spring, about six months after I moved in. I was thrilled.
And I continued to be thrilled each year when the first ripe berries appeared.
This year, I thought, was no different.
Early in the summer, a few small berries appeared – enough to garnish breakfast at least once a week. And I was thrilled.
Later in the summer, larger berries appeared – enough to garnish breakfast several times a week. And I was thrilled and grateful.
Now there’s a mix of large and small berries – every day. Relentlessly.
Enough to garnish every breakfast and an occasional dessert.
And they don’t stop coming.
And I am no longer thrilled.
I am sure that if Aesop had created fables about fruits, he would have come to some profound conclusion about my relentless raspberries.
But he didn’t. And I haven’t – although there may be some analogies to American’s standard of living – but I’m too tired (and too full of raspberries) to figure it out.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
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