Fruit campaign

Karen, my betrothed (getting married in September), is on a loving campaign to get more fruit into me.

“I want you to live for another 30 years (I’m 62),” she says, “and you need to eat fruits and vegetables.”

I eat vegetables regularly, but I admit I am not much on fruit. Takes room away from beef, pork and Oyster Po’ Boys.

“Pear?” she said this morning.
“Don’t like pears,” I said.
“Apple?”
“Don’t like apples,” I said.

At that moment, I was enjoying a late breakfast of peanut butter on a toasted English muffin. My tastes run to the savory and not the sweet. There is also something about the texture of apples and pears. Karen understands that and accepts it. She didn’t press the pear or the apple.

“Strawberry?” she said.
I shrugged. “Okay.” No substitute for a bowl of posole, but okay.
She turned toward the refrigerator.

“Three,” I said. She turned back toward me, walked to me, shook me by the shoulder. “You will eat a serving,” she said, laughing. We never get too serious about things, except when things need us to be serious.

“Three is a serving,” I said. Yes, I know that three strawberries is not a serving, but it is fun to protest. Most of the time, it makes Karen laugh and she has a great laugh.

She ignored me, got strawberries out of the refrigerator, I continued with the muffin and the Weather Channel. She set a custard cup, brimming with strawberries, in front of me.

“That’s too many!” I said.
“Six,” she said, declaratively, sweetly.

They weren’t bad. I remember people said that every cigarette you smoked took minutes off your life. Maybe strawberries will put them back on.