Life is a Bowl of Cherries
life is a bowl of cherries, why am I in the pits?" asked humorist, Erma
Bombeck. I know what she meant, literally.
Every time I open the refrigerator, beady little cherry eyeballs stare up at me.
I slam the door quickly. I've never liked cherries.
In spite of the sweetness, they always seem to have a tart aftertaste to me. So,
why do I have cherries in the fridge? It's my son's fault. They probably looked
good in the produce section. Unlike the seedless grapes I usually buy, cherries
have pits. He remembered this important fact the first time he bit into one.
I need to get rid of them. Maybe I'll make a cherry cobbler, I thought, in a
domestic moment. I used to bake when had to cook for a growing family. In later
years, I've grown complacent. Cooking is no longer a challenge, no longer fun
like it used to be. Or, maybe I'm simply too lazy.
Regardless, I am determined to get rid of those beady-eyed cherries. I remember
having a recipe somewhere, I think, flipping pages in the cookbook. On the third
flyby, I find it, Magic Peach Cobbler -- but you can use any kind of fruit, it
says in the directions.
The first order of business is to cut the cherries in half and remove the pits.
Cherry in the bowl, pit in the trash, cherry here, pit there, cha, cha, cha, one
cherry at a time. "This could take all day," I thought, shifting from
one foot to the other. Persistence paid off, and finally they were finished.
"One and 3/4 cups of fruit," said the recipe. I knew from experience
that a few cherries, more or less, would still work. "Don't want to waste
them," I thought, looking at my red, cherry-stained fingers.
"One cup flour, one cup sugar, one and 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder and
¾ cup of milk." I can do that if I can find the baking powder. I found it
at the back of the top shelf. As I removed it, a box of chicken bullion cubes
tumbled out and fell on the floor. Where did those come from? No harm done.
"Melt one stick of butter." I will turn on the oven and melt it while
I mix the rest of the stuff. I know I have a mixing bowl somewhere. Hope the
flour doesn't have mites in it. I can't remember the last time I used flour.
What's that hard lump in the flour? Oh, my measuring spoon. I wondered where
"Pour the flour mixture over the melted butter and do not stir." While
I removed the butter from the oven, the spatula fell out of the mixing bowl onto
the floor making a gooey mess to clean up.
"Sprinkle the fruit over the top." I carefully picked out a pit that I
missed. Now, "Sprinkle with a cup of sugar." I hope I have enough
sugar, I thought, turning the canister upside down and shaking out barely
This thing must have a zillion calories in it. Now I remember
why I don't bake any more. I add some cinnamon whether the recipe has it or not.
I want it to smell good baking.
I put it into the oven at 350 degrees and turn unhappily to the sink full of
dirty mixing bowls and the spilled sugar. The timer! I forgot the most important
part. "Bake for 30 minutes."
I was barely done cleaning up my mess when the alarm went off. I smelled
something burning. Oh, no! I ran to the oven, but the cobbler had only cooked
over and juice was burning on the bottom of the oven. The crust had risen to the
top and the fruit was on the bottom. That's why it is called "magic."
In spite of spills, dirty oven and being red-handed, I'm no longer in the pits.
Erma would be so proud.