Friday, September 26, 2014

Chestnut




I like difficult things. Especially if -- at the end -- there is the possibility of a sweet reward as there is in the case of foraging for chestnuts or marrons if you're French, as I am on my mother's side way back to Alsace-Lorraine.

Look at those spines. Gosh, they are spiny! But a husk in a defensive crouch is no match for me and my tool use, which goes back farther than France.

I have blood on my hands. The things poked me up a bunch.  But I have skin the thickness of a rhino; I am a freelance writer. I deal with rejection every single day if I am doing my job well.  Delicately peeling chestnuts. 

Sure, there were worms in some of them. Yes, some kernels were shriveled. Certainly, the dog rolled in deer poop as I walked, gleaning, among the fallen nuts that were as shiny reddish-brown as the coat of a fast horse.

Worms? Poop? Form change? Please.  I'm middle aged, honey. There's not much I can't clean, or scrape off, and return to the sauce pot, and sweeten, and stir, and place into individual frilled-paper candy cups and call marrons glac├ęs faciles

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