Most raw pears are terrible, but they're good just often enough that I keep on believing there is hope. They're a gaslight of a fruit, relying on my fond memory of a pear—real or imagined—to keep my heart from hardening to them. Hardening like a pear. They are hard, right? And gritty to boot, even when they've softened to unpalatable sludge. I have to keep reminding myself of this, or I will buy pears again. So many of them, now that they are back in season.
I think that's their sneaky, sneaky trick. Their presence is short, but their absence is lengthy enough that any insult they may have caused has softened around the edges. So go I again, stuffing my tote bags and and paper sacks with all the pears and their possibility. Perhaps Bosc this time, Anjou or Starkrimson, so curvaceous and pleasing to the eye. Though people often dub them such, they're not a sexy fruit because they're an inanimate object that you will not—at least please don't—have an erotic attraction to. But pears are sensually appealing, a solid weight in the hand, calming to palm, and may even smell good, low, and sweet.
Dammit, I want one. Resist. It is Charlie Brown and the football here, ad infinitum. I'll charge forcefully forward, hope in my heart and end up flat on my metaphorical back, cursing my own gullibility. There must have been enough good pears at some point in my life that I am holding onto this belief that an excellent-to-adequate one is impending, but at some point, the dream becomes folly, and I must awake.
If I want to have pears in my life, I must meet them where they are. Pears need to be cooked, not just bitten into willy-nilly unless I want to contend with another mouthful of sandy, mealy regret and yet another bout of self recrimination. Patience, self—take the time to poach, roast, bake, or braise. Pears can change, become good and worthy. It just takes some heat or possibly pressure, but they will transmute from utter garbage into something glorious.
Maybe this is too much pressure to place on a fruit, but it saves me from turning my upset inward. Maybe I purchased or stored them incorrectly, or failed to eat them during their optimal window of enjoyability—stop stressing me, fruit! I wish but to enjoy you, shout you out with Rick Ross-like abandon, but I can only do so with caveats. My enthusiasm was once so pure. Now it's just gone pear-shaped.