They returned with the kind of fire in their eyes and the tannish glow to the skin that only being out of the house and outdoors brings. And they effused with blustery tails reminiscent of our old Boy Scout "Snipe hunting" adventures.
"We've been out hunting pine cones" they both bragged in unison. Looking non-plussed up at them from my paper, I remarked 'I didn't even know you took your guns' and mused "did they put up much of a fight?"
Two buckets of the things have kept our house smelling like the inside of a tree-squirrel nest for the past two weeks, as the microwave, along with dads help, has churned out batch after batch of the sticky, greenish-brown things. Of course they then needed to be de-coned and shelled before they could be eaten.
If you've never had "real", roasted pine nuts (i.e. non-pasteurized or machinated) then you've really never even tasted a pine nut. I mean, I like pesto with the rest of you — but, I would never… ever… even think of grinding up one of THESE beauties into green paste! Save that fate for those store bought things which taste like Styrofoam.
We began planning a return trip up to Verl and Delma's secret place for two weeks hence and started inventing long-handled cone pickers so we could get at those elusive ones hiding in the top-most branches.
There are compensations for growing older. One is the realization that to be sporting isn't at all necessary. It is a great relief to reach this stage of wisdom.”
We loaded our cone-pickers, buckets, bags, lunches and drinks and threw in a tub of butter for our hands (the pine pitch you know); but, what we didn't count on was the… well the… crap, I can't even bring myself to say it… the pictures say it all!