08/06/27: Sugar pears

It was a gloriously warm afternoon in late September that, save the tiredness of the summer sun, could’ve been mistaken for an evening in mid-June. Golden hues shone from each waxy leaf in the orchards giving the impression that, like much of Niagara-on-the-Lake, they had been “antiqued.” The apple trees were just starting to be picked and the All of trees now stood barren, save the. Pear season was nearly over, but with a hopeful heart and a box of empty mason jars awaiting my return, I’d set out to scavenge the last of this year’s yield.

I drove down Hwy 55 scouring signs for roadside fruit stands and pulled over beside the first one I saw that said “PEARS.” The fruit “stand” was actually a converted shed that had been mounted on wheels, painted purple and had an awning over one side. A man was standing at a table by the trailer packing apples into bushels, and as I approached, a woman – obviously his wife – walked over and greeted me with a smile. Her face showed the signs of a life spent outdoors and her matter-of-factness– and earthiness – implied a familiarity with the land that one only acquires after years of working it. Though a farmer for most of her life, she now ran a bed and breakfast out of her home – a change that, though possibly due to the physical limitations of an aging body, was rather indicative of the evolving economic trends in Niagara.

“You’ve got pears?” I inquired as simultaneously noticing a bushel of them off to one corner of their display.

“This is the last of them!” she replied jubilantly, tilting the bushel so I could better see inside. The bushel was only about two-thirds full. “Just finished picking these this afternoon . . . Here . . .” she picked out a small yellow pear and handed it to me to try. It was still warm from the sun. Biting into it, the juices escaped the corners of my mouth and dripped off my chin. The pears were perfectly ripe and juicy.

“These are sugar pears,” she informed me. “Small, but full of flavour.” I asked to purchase a large basket of them. “They’re a little small for eating, but are great for canning,” she added as she picked through the bushel for the best ones.

“Wonderful! I was planning on poaching these in red wine” – a recipe I’d found in a Canadian Living cookbook that, considering the pears I made earlier that season had already disappeared, had proved quite the success.

“Oh that’ll be lovely! Have you ever tried pears with brandy?”

I had, had loved them, and still had a few jars left in the fruit cellar. We traded recipes.