About six years ago, my dad planted three fruit trees on the lower terrace of our house – cherry, pear and apricot. They were tiny little things barely taller than my knee, but they were planted with the promise to one day bear all of the fruit that we would need. This year, the apricot tree delivered. Big time.
Every morning, Parker and my dad take the stairs down to the terrace to see how many apricots had ripened the night before. Thus far, they’ve come back every day with a bag like this.
Their daily ritual then involves washing and picking the ripest ones. For whatever reason, I’ve earned the privilege of getting first pick. Perhaps it’s because I’ll do the appropriate amount of ooh-ing and aah-ing over the deliciousness of the fruit. Don’t get me wrong, my exclamations are entirely warranted. I have never had better tasting fruit in my life.
It is with a ridiculous amount of anticipation that I return home on Monday to our house in North Carolina. We call it the Orchard House for good reason – pretty soon, there will be blueberries, blackberries, kiwi, cherries and pears a plenty in our orchard. For an urbanite such as myself, the thought of living off of the land seems like a dream instead of a possible reality.
Now, I just need the Irishman to take up fishing and buy a couple of chickens and we’ll be well on our way towards grocery store liberation.