I once wrote an essay about recurrence, about longing and heartbreak, and saccharine pleasures and the deliciousness of denying them; I wrote about death and separation and the ways we try to fool ourselves into believing we’re not sad. We were asked to write about what we believed in, and I wrote about the engine of my car and the fact that whenever someone was about to break my heart, they gave me a popsicle.
I don’t have a copy of that essay any more, but I still do have a friend or two who remembers it, fondly. They remember it as the popsicle essay, just like they remember the poem I wrote a few years later as the one about pears. It’s about love, lust, and licking someone else’s fingers, but it’s the pears that shine through, even for the girl I know who remembers it, alternately, as the poem about peaches and “that one with the plums.”
The important thing to glean from all of this? Images are powerful, but, as it says above: this is not a food blog. Don’t be fooled by the name.