Lions and Tigers and Berries, Oh My!

"We need to defrost our freezer." he says, obviously drunk.

"Ah, but here is the catch 22- to defrost the freezer, we need a freezer." I say, obviously intellectual and well-read.

"We can throw 90% of this stuff away anyway." he says, drunker by the minute

"My berries? you Would throw MY berries?" I say, with a smack on his head for emphasis

"They've been in here for two years." he says, wincing.

"I've been saving them for a special occasion." I say, with no smack on the head, nothing works on this man.

"Food poisoning?" He says.

In the end, I did bake a pie. But not with the berries in the fridge - they are two years old for Chrissakes. But my mother picked them, which means I can't throw them out. Mothers have a freakish ability to tell and re-tell stories of the times they were picking berries for you and almost threw out their back. Or stumbled over the some mulberry bush or the other and almost broke their left eye. Or got chased down the mountains by bears, like that's really true. Or got eaten by a bear but "no dear, I'm allright now." In any case, when that day comes, you don't want to tell your ma that she sacrificed herself to whatever pine forest tribe of her choosing just to put fruit on your table just to have them crammed into the neighbours' trashbag.

Come the winter of her life and You'll be applying hemmorid cream for years and years, my freind. (Although I tend to use that term loosely with ass-touchers in general.)