The Truth About Acorns

I must confess that I had way too much fun writing about sardines yesterday. It was liberating to casually investigate this topic - it felt a little like switching from watercolors or oils to fingerpaints.  I liked being loose, with an authentic voice.  And bingo, that old memory of Sunday nights popped up to make the whole thing worth the effort.

I’m back today, wondering if the spell still lingers. 

Yesterday I reminded myself of something while writing about sardines: let go. Pull the stops. Don’t worry about the overt “value” of what is being said, or even how it is being said. Most “unworthy” topics really do matter, if only because there’s a story attached somewhere.  It’s a matter of starting the process and inviting that story to come out of hiding and surprise everyone (me included, or maybe especially me?).

So, right now I need to pick another unlikely topic (but not sardines again).  How about….hmmmm, thinking, thinking….oh, I don’t know.  How about acorns?

Okay.  Sure.

This afternoon I swept 1,264 (give or take) of the little round, dormant baby-oak-trees-in-hiding from our deck. And there must be at least ten times that many still overhead.  (This is a conservative estimate.)

Eager excavation-specialists (fox squirrels) are hanging out in our yard with the acorns - Forrest Gump would say “like peas and carrots”.  Evidently acorns must be their version of prime-rib-du-jour all winter, although I’m not sure why.

And I’m not sure why because I know the truth.  They taste awful.

THERE.  That last sentence just told me “the rest of the story” (to quote Paul Harvey).

The year I was ten or twelve years old I decided our grandfatherly, weathered oak tree at the lake was producing acorns that looked almost identical to the hazelnuts-in-the-shell in the nut bowl at Christmas-time. So I set out to prove to myself that I need not wait months until the holiday season rolled around to enjoy crunching away – after all, there were almost an unlimited supply of acorns.  So I smashed one on the concrete step with my dad’s hammer, and learned the truth that day. They taste awful.

Although I’m not exactly sure of all the implications, it seems important that this little writing exercise led to my remembrance of eating that disgustingly bitter acorn half-a-century-ago.  As I think back on that previously forgotten memory, it’s like opening a gift-wrapped piece of myself that had been long-hidden in a dark closet, covered with mothballs.

There’s nothing profound in any of this. Nothing especially important or valuable.  So thanks for hanging with me while the process of discovery unfolded. If you’re desperate for take-away so you don’t feel like you’ve totally wasted the last several minutes of reading time, remember this bit of trivia about acorns: they taste awful.