Behold a Giant Muh

Sourest of the Sours

As many of my readers remember, three years ago I planted an orchard. A peach farmer told me that I needed to cull all the fruit from the trees for three years, which I have. Part of the reason I wanted to plant this small orchard was the fact that so many of the trees on our property and on the property of our de facto mother-in-law Dorothy next door bear fruit, some of it wild, and some of it domestic. I love the idea of fruit trees in my midst, and I love fruit.

One of Dorothy’s trees is an old, old cherry tree that sometimes bears and sometimes does not. This spring it is suddenly covered in bright, small, extremely sour cherries. In the past, I have enjoyed popping a few of them in my mouth as I passed on the riding mower, but today when I roared by, I noticed there were more than ever, so I stopped and picked a bunch so I could photograph them.

They were as sour as ever, and even the goats politely declined to eat them.

Dorothy’s cherries in a glass pie pan, lit by the kitchen window; Abby held the pan so I could make the shot
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