Oh Pear

I take my pears very seriously and if I eat one a day too early, or (God forbid) too late I am overcome with fruit grief. Most of the time I nail it, my ripe-timing so good, I consider myself the Art Blakey of the Bartlett. Sometimes, I wonder how I can be so advanced when it comes to pear ripening and yet remain such a novice elsewhere. Why can’t I handle the sticky business of life like I do a red D’Anjou?

I believe in the wisdom of fruit, and I think the pear may be the wisest of all. With the integrity of an apple and the chin-dripping slut-joys of a peach, a pear can do astonishing things. Lately, I’m deep into a Comice groove, getting the tarnished green darlings from my Korean pear dealer Mr. Ha. Mr. Ha is an apple Bishop, but his congregation accepts pears as well. He grows some real gems in the Antelope Valley, where the cold mornings and warm days do wonderful things to fruit trees.

One of the great LA tragedies was when my favorite Korean restaurant changed ownership overnight with no warning (I walked in one day it was someplace else). It was right down the block, and to have a restaurant you love within walking distance in Los Angeles is like having Moby Dick in your swimming pool (that metaphor has no idea what it’s doing, but I’m leaving it). It was run by a hip, gorgeous older couple, and it felt like you were coming over to their house for an intimate dinner, the small, blonde wood room, homey, yet sacred as a shrine. Before the restaurant they had grown these special plums in the Antelope Valley and as I ate their wonderful seafood pancake (prepared right before my eyes) I would dream about their stone fruit.

The Koreans take their fruit as seriously as I do. The growing, the eating and especially the buying of it. Their supermarkets are fruit temples, giant Fuji apples and white flesh peaches worshiped, and purchased by the box. They have an entire sect devoted to grapes and another to those small, yellow Chamoe melons, each one perched on its own Styrofoam throne, lest they bruise their little tuchuses. But enough about melons. Let’s get back to pears.

Oh, you yielding musky wench! How dare you give in so easily. When treated with indifference you offer a tasteless crunch or neglected, mealy outrage, but when attention is paid you reveal a fecund vulnerability and honeyed wetness. Pears are female as are most complex and deeply satisfying things and their shape is woman as well. The long Modigliani neck and pregnant belly of the Bosc. The sturdy fertile-hipped roundness of the green D’Anjou and its gypsy-skinned sister. The lumpy, proletariat charms of the Bartlett, which should come wearing a babushka. An apple is a simpleton and associated with Adam, who threw his chick under the bus when God asked him if he took a bite. Eve may be associated with le pomme, but she IS a pear.

But let’s get back to ripeness, which is where this all started. Here are some definitions of ripe. 1. Developed to the point of readiness. 2. Fully matured. 3. Rich, intense, pungent. Ripe is code for fully realized. Allowing things to ripen requires patience and attention. Teaches us to let go of the “why” and get into the “when.” I’m not just talking about fruit, I’m talking about everything; especially people. To sense when another is ripe and to appreciate and savor their sweetness is a gift to both; or even better, to know how to bring it out in someone. To watch them grow juicy in the sun-warmth of your gaze. And of course, to get in touch with our own ripeness, and understand how and when we taste best, even if we’re ripe with melancholy. It’s all about rhythm and timing. About waiting, but not waiting too long. Buy a few hard pears and watch them closely; feel them gently; learn their secrets. You’ll be amazed how thin the line is between a hard, tasteless thing and something that drips down your chin.