Pears, pears, pears
I've got pears. Boy, have I got pears. At this time of year, pears around here are like zucchini; everybody has them and no one can get rid of them. I called the one neighbor that I know doesn't have a pear tree, but someone had beat me to it and she already has a bag full of them.

If pears ripened sensibly in cool autumn weather like apples do, everything would be fine. They don't do that. No, they start ripening when it's 85 degrees and there isn't a prayer that you can keep them for more than a week before they turn yellow and gooshy.

Bears love pears. I have six pear trees, scattered around the property, but only one of them is close to the house. That's the one that I try to strip every year--before the fruit gets really ripe and someone large and furry comes around to harvest it by breaking off the tree's branches. I picked three large net bags full of pears and there are still some left on the tree.

My neighbor was sympathetic but adamant. Uh-uh, can't use any more pears. She's going to make pear sauce (like applesauce) out of some of the ones she has, and turn some more into pear jelly. I asked about freezing, and she said yes, if you poach them first. So, I simmered some with sucralose and a bit of cinnamon, and then packed them into a gallon-size plastic bag to toss in the freezer as a test case. Tomorrow I'll slice some of the riper ones and put them in the dehydrator.

I've only got 15 pounds or 20 pounds to go.