[SB] Sabbath Blessing

[Molly Wolf]

Cherries

I scoop a handful from the bowl of washed fruit in the refrigerator, dump 
them into a small glass bowl, and take them to my desk to eat while I work. 
Tongue and teeth expertly strip the sweet, cold, deep-flavoured flesh from 
the pit, most satisfying. Cherries are currently abundant at the 
supermarket, and people line up to load up on them. We're good-natured 
about it, patiently waiting as others tease out handfuls of sound fruit; we 
may even chat a little about how much we love the taste -- something 
unusual, as supermarket chat isn't commonplace here.

Cherries are special, more special even than corn on the cob -- which you 
can now buy year-round, even if it doesn't taste like much. You can buy 
tomatoes in January, too, if you want to call those things tomatoes. It's 
good to have fresh lettuce available in the doldrums of late winter -- no 
complaints about that. But there are some things that have their seasons, 
and there's no way around that. Real tomatoes, real corn, Yellow 
Transparent apples (or Gravensteins, for that matter), and cherries.  Above 
all cherries. One reason we love them so much is that we're acutely aware 
that we can only pig out on them for a brief time in late summer. That 
greatly increases our joy in them.

Why haven't we figured this out, as a society? Having as much as you want 
as often as you want it isn't nearly as much fun as a little gentle 
deprivation. I have a tiny bowl of ice cream, less than a half cup, and I 
enjoy every small spoonful, stretching out the richness and the delicious 
creaminess; a full bowl would be half the treat. I treasure every single 
cherry I eat, stopping to give the fruit the due it ripely deserves, 
attending to the deep red gloss, the elegant stem, the rich flavour. I have 
a single sundress that I particularly cherish, and I wear it less often 
than the others and wash it by hand, caring for it so that it may last.

But this is all counter-cultural.  Culture says that we're supposed to 
fulfil our desires, satiate ourselves, indulge. Scratch that itch, and if 
you've got the wherewithal (probably not), then maybe you can look after 
others. If _Seinfeld_ re-runs aren't more attractive, that is. There's a 
big billboard up on the main drag not far from here, saying smugly "It's 
all about  me!"

Well, no it isn't. It's all about reality. Some fruits may be stored and 
conserved and brought forth to supermarket shelves long out of season; some 
only appear in August. We can't plan births or (especially) deaths to be 
neatly convenient, thanks be to God.  Cherries aren't predictable; they 
aren't on tap whenever I feel like eating them. They are a present and 
temporary joy. They remind me that mine is an humble place in creation; I 
am only one of the creatures, and my season is brief and passing. Strangely 
enough (by current cultural standards), I find this message moving, 
comforting, reassuring.

We're in late summer now, the time of maximal heat and the shirring racket 
of cicidas; the sun is strong but the evenings come on a little earlier 
every day. In a week or so, we'll see local potatoes and sweet corn, and 
the cherries will be gone until next year. It's okay. Only one feast is 
eternal, and that's the one that waits for us when all seasons stop and the 
year no longer turns.



Lilacs. The year's first real snow. Your children's infancy. Some things 
are only available for a season, and that's how it ought to be.