apricot nirvana (or hell, whichever way you look at it)

After A. got home from work this evening, he went into the backyard, and then peeked his handsome face through the kitchen window screen.

“What happened?” he said. “You didn’t pick any?”

We had agreed I’d pick a bunch of apricots — that are just starting to ripen — before we head east tomorrow.

I had picked 60. Sixty apricots.

And the tree still looks full.

C. helped me. I stood on a rickety chair in the 100-degree mid-morning shade and handed them to him one at a time — and he eagerly dropped them in the colander. Then he picked a handful of green ones from the low branches, very proud of himself.

“Apricot!” he said, beaming, and added to our collection. (Sadly, I had to toss those.)

I blanched and froze 40 of them. And then I made a honey-sweetened apricot butter infused with lavender that we got in our farm box yesterday.

I canned two jars and tied ’em up all pretty.

This evening, A. took bucket-loads of apricots to our neighbors, almost all of whom are retired. He stopped at five houses — and dished out 12 a house. One neighbor was especially grateful — said he’s been trying to eat more orange-colored fruit.

Now A. is at the stove making apricot preserves — without any sugar — out of 100 more apricots.

He picked all of them this evening.

And the tree still looks full.

I’ve been eating a few apricots a day. Plus, I put them in my morning oatmeal. And we’re using them as ice cubes in our white wine.

Many apricots will be ready for the pickin’ while we’re visiting friends and celebrating a few weddings. So we’ve told a couple friends to come by and help themselves. And we’ve told the birds to have at it.

And honestly, I think it’s OK we’ll be gone for a bit.

‘Cause my skin is turning a slight orange: I’m a little afraid we’re about to turn into apricots.