A week ago the pears were unyielding, you couldn’t coax them off the tree. They teased me with a red blush, but I could tell they weren’t going anywhere. So I left them alone to do their thing. There’s no arguing with a green pear. Towards the end of the week I wandered past their hideout again, only to find they were ripe, falling on the ground. Now the aroma of pear butter is wafting out the windows, saturating the air.
I can’t work the same magic with pears that my friends the Byzantine monks in Eagle Harbor, Michigan can. They have secret recipes tucked away. At the Jam Pot they have shelves and shelves of their talents on display, butters and jams and other delicious things. Maybe their recipes are sweeter because they pray five hours a day.
The Man-Child and his friends have wandered into the monks’ territory this Labor Day. While I slept and dreamed of being 18, they drove through the night, crossed the Mackinac Bridge, through the Seney Wildlife Refuge, and onto the Keweenaw. While I’m stirring pear butter in Indiana, they’re making memories on Brockway Mountain, grilling salmon on the lakeshore, eating the monks’ bakery.
This is good, the way I dreamed it would someday be.
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