Ignorance is Quince

I love to proclaim my ignorance.   That way I remain one step ahead of all the callous sophisticates who like to take shots at me. 

Or, when I do or say something that suggests that my brain may actually be larger than a pea, people are pleasantly surprised----as am I. 

Proclaimed ignorance also lowers expectations from others AND more importantly the stress level of oneself to perform.

All that said, this morning, I wish to further the common notion that Marianne needs to get around the block a few more times,  cuz she sure is stupid.

Today's stupidity validity stems from a visit from a friend the other day.  It was the first time Kelli had come to the Lovestead.  She brought her adorable little daughter, and we proceeded on the "show-and-tell" journey around the place. 

At one point, while standing next to the barnyard fence, she pointed at a bush and asked, "Is that a quince?"

"No," I said, explaining that it was some sort of ornamental pear which can't be eaten because the fruit is hard as a rock.  

The bush has been bearing fruit for the last couple of years.  One time I plucked one of the fruits and tried to cut it open.  The effort with the knife ended up with just a simple scratch on the side of the fruit, which I threw away.

Most of those fruits, when they do fall off the bush, get the Lovestead lawnmower treatment.  At least the blades on the mower do kinda cut 'em up in smaller pieces. 

Anyway, Kelli sought no further information, but I'm betting inside her noggan, she was saying to herself, "Well, that looks like every quince I've ever seen."  

Fast forward.

This morning I was doing my usual scrolling through Facebook.  

Someone had posted a picture, entitled "my baked quince."  It was this red stuff in a baking pan.  At first, I scrolled right on by.  

Then, something in the pea brain came alive.  I scrolled back.

"Hmm, those do have the same shape as the cement pears out there on the bush," I thought.

Wasting no time, I googled "quince."  As usual, several sites came up, even some pictures. Some of those pictures looked exactly like those cement pears out there on the bush.

Then, I googled "how" and "when" to harvest quince.  The general advice:  wait until after a freeze.  Smell the fruit; it should have a pineapple or floral scent when it's ready to pick.   

Another said it should sit in cold storage for a while, and the fruit will continue to ripen. 

Well, silly me.  All this time I've been cussing my quince every time individual fruits hit me, like a hard ball,  from the branches whenever I go by on the lawnmower. 

I've had nothing good to say about that bush except for in the spring when it comes alive with hundreds of beautiful pink blossoms. 

My "ignorance is quince"  stems from our existence over on Great Northern Road.  

We had a quince bush, next to our hazelnut tree,  which bloomed profusely----gorgeous apricot/orange blossoms every year. Not once did a fruit grow from that quince.  

So, I guess quince bushes come in different styles, just like apple and plum trees. 

And, I'm guessing that this year and all years from now on, I'll treat that bush and its fruits with a whole lot more respect. 

Finally, I'll harvest the fruit, let it age inside and see if I can make some jelly.  

Now that that bit of ignorance is out of the way, I'm sure I'll find other reasons to be stupid, like turkeys launching off to go to bed up in the trees. 

Seriously, I love a life which is constantly offering new "ah-ha" moments, and I'm guessing that "ah-ha" moments come at different times for different folks.

And, if Kelli had never asked if that was a quince bush, I'd probably spend the rest of my years chewing up those cement pears with the lawnmower. 

Happy Friday.