Life is like . . .

. . . a bowl full of cherries?

I bought a bunch of cherries and realized quickly that I was the only one who liked them. They reminded me of the summer of 2004 when we spent a month in Creston, BC, at Darren's parents' farm. Marie (mom-in-law) brought home a case or bushel or something of lovely cherries. She would even know what kind they were - because I think they grow something like 30 varieties in the valley up there. Migrant workers come to pick each season and they're not hispanic - they're French Canadian hippies who bathe in the Goat River.

Anyway, Marie got a cherry pitter and I got to work it. I set it up by the fridge in the kitchen and I'll never forget the bright red splatter all over the side of the bare white fridge each time I punched a cherry. It looked like some gory crime scene better suited for a sleazy motel. We moved operation outside after that.

Strange story, I know, but I can't eat cherries without thinking of it.

SO - if life is like a bowl full of cherries, then it's sweet and rich at first - and full of bitterness and rot after a while. ( like I said - I can't eat them all by myself!)