Cherries taste better by the bucket.
A berry tastes better when U-Pick, though I’m not complaining about the sixty five pounds of ripe picked organic cherries for fifty seven dollars that we got on the fourth from Wolfe’s.
I think my son Yuri may be able to eat his weight in berries.
We can test this now, given how much we’ve bought.
I assured her that it made sense to buy a mountain of cherries to make up for the gas getting there. Plus, sometimes life is better lived gluttonously.
Yuri choose with his eyes, and I let him. The mint is too strong, but he loves the sugar and chocolate. It’s a quandary exacerbated by my moaning about the best fresh cherry milkshake I’ve ever had.
My wife claims I say that every year we go to Hood River. But this time, I swear it is true. Even if it is the exact same milkshake, this time, I get to enjoy it while my son suffers through his choice.
A good man with evil, or an evil man with good? Either way, I enjoyed that.
Atop a stove is
A piece of art, in the form
Of a cherry tart.
I can eat a Haiku.
Alcoholism is a disease.
Cherries are an addiction. And they go with everything, even wine.
My wife loves them separately, but when put together… bliss.
I’m not completely sold on the idea, but it looks great.
But as a responsible father, husband, and productive member of society. I must settle for cherry and almond milk.
I should have stirred it. Nice at first, but got weird towards the bottom when the almond flavor overpowered.
After eating and drinking pounds of cherries, I wondered what my lovely wife would craft next.
Some people are feeders. Some people are eaters. I’ve gotta do my part.
Leaving a pile of seeds for an art project.
Making me fat.