Cracked ... Again!

I just cracked my ceramic scone pan--again. It wasn't too bad--a chip off the old block--so I went ahead and baked the batch I'd just mixed up (apricot-walnut). And then I headed to my computer and ordered another one from King Arthur Flour (the 2nd one this year)--oh, that I had Merlin on call just to fix the damn things I've been breaking lately!

I feel innocent, really--all I did was gently (?) bump the pan against a harder surface, and I heard a chip fly from the fluted edge of the pan and land in the sink (the only good news: I didn't have to crawl around on the floor looking for it).

Let's pause a moment and talk about apricots ...

I love them--always have. Though, in early boyhood ...

Right after WW II we were living in Norman, Oklahoma, where my dad was working on his doctorate at the University of Oklahoma--thank you, G. I. Bill! And, by the way, this commenced my father's life-long passion for the Sooners football team. He grieved whenver they lost, which wasn't too often back then (they once won 47 games in a row--still an NCAA record, I think). He passed that passion along to his three sons; it stuck with two of them, the two younger ones.

Anyway, Norman ... We were living next door to a family who had an apricot tree. I was not yet old enough for school (and my little brother had not yet arrived to steal my position on the Family Fondness Chart), so I roamed around the yard--and one day, seeing apricots on the tree nearby, decided I would climb a few limbs, eat a few (free) apricots.

As you can see from this pic (which I, uh, just borrowed form Google), the trees are not high--easy for a four-year old--especially a dumb, hungry one--to climb and sample

Which is what I did.

I felt they were a little .... tough? What I didn't realize then was that they were not yet ripe. Very green. And that, as I was to discover later to my mother's chagrin (and, okay, disgust), had some gastrointestinal consequences that we will not discuss.

But that experience did not dim my fondness. (Little boys can be forgiving.)

And I have loved apricots ever since.

BTW: We pronounced the word APP-rih-kot; others say APE-rih-kott. Which is it?  Just checked, Dictionary.com says it's either way. (Whew.)

Back to this morning's event ...

I've noticed, during this shutdown period in our lives, that I have become increasingly clumsy. Dropping things. Breaking things. Chipping things. Watching helplessly as things I've dropped roll under the bed--or the dishwasher--or the fridge--or down the floor vent---or to some mysterious place where I cannot find them at all.

I find myself at such times muttering curses at myself--never loud enough for Joyce (or the neighbors, who, by the way, do not have an apricot tree) to hear. But sufficiently loud enough for my soul to hear them, and shudder in agreement.