If organic is the natural way, shouldn’t organic produce just be called “produce” and make the pesticide-laden stuff take the burden of
fruit
Stages of Papago Orange Blossom
segmented,
fermented,
demented.
entry in my beer tasting journal for Huss Brewing Co.’s Papago Orange Blossom, a delicious Arizona vanilla mandarin wheat ale
Sylvia’s figs
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story.
“From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out.
“I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
—Sylvia Plath (1932–1963), The Bell Jar, 1963
The Unripened Old
Youth fears death,
For the blossom longs to be fruit.
But the fruit that is ripened by age
Loves Autumn’s west wind
And laughs, falling…
Only the unripened old fear to go.
—James Oppenheim (1882–1932), “The Unripened Old,” War and Laughter, 1916
Sweet life
age split a cherry
midlife is the pit
sweet and ripe surround