Anne had a passion for nuts. She loved them all, regardless of their color or country of origin.
She lived in an upper-class suburban home with her daughter in the United States.
It was filled with modern furniture, family pictures, and paintings by Anne and her daughter, both artists and widows.
Anne's nutty affairs lasted for decades. She flitted like a bee from her dark brown-shelled lover from Brazil to the sweet tan cashew, from Africa, to her green pistachio paramours from the Middle East, and the U.S.
Hot for all of them, Anne quickly cracked their shells, with the whack of a nut cracker or a bite with her teeth, and pulled out the meat she wanted inside her.
In her seventies, she started getting mild stomach pains. "Probably something I ate," Anne speculated.
A woman from a city in the U.S. where pecans are grown taught Anne how to rub the thin, light brown shells of two of them together until they cracked, revealing sweet, buttery meat. She also taught her to move the nuts around her tongue, so she wouldn't miss a single sensuous experience.
Anne's stomach pain worsened. She had trouble eating anything without pain developing. Frightened because cancer runs in their family, her daughter rushed Anne to a doctor. He said she had diverticulitis. She had to change her diet, and she had to ditch her nutty lovers.
At a family party, relish trays were set up for guests inbibing before dinner. So were bowls of nuts.
With a sinking pain in her stomach caused by the loss of her lovers, a tear rolled down Anne's cheek as she looked at the tan walnuts in a sterling silver bowl on the kitchen bar. She drank a martini.
"Take me," said the dry, bitter native of Mexico through its craggy shell. "You know you can see my erect ridges once you crack my shell."
"Maybe it was the martini," she thought. "Or maybe the stress of the breakup had caused her to lose her mind."
She grabbed her cane and walked by the dark brown chestnuts in a cut-glass bowl on the gleaming teak dining table. "Remember when I wasn't around," the chestnut asked?" She furrowed her brow, thinking. "You couldn't wait until fall arrived, so you could grab me from the store shelf, rush me home, and roast me in the oven," said the chestnut from Asia.
Remembering, she moved as briskly as she could to the white Scan sofa, plopped against a rust-colored throw pillow, and looked into a bowl of cashews on the coffee table. Her mouth watered.
A half-hour of ecstasy with the sweet kidney-shaped nuts wasn't worth the horrendous pain, and possible constipation and bleeding, that might follow, she decided.
Sitting next to her granddaughter, she said with a gleam in her eyes, "The first thing I'm going to do when I get to heaven is ask St. Peter for a bowl of nuts."
She lived in an upper-class suburban home with her daughter in the United States.
It was filled with modern furniture, family pictures, and paintings by Anne and her daughter, both artists and widows.
Anne's nutty affairs lasted for decades. She flitted like a bee from her dark brown-shelled lover from Brazil to the sweet tan cashew, from Africa, to her green pistachio paramours from the Middle East, and the U.S.
Hot for all of them, Anne quickly cracked their shells, with the whack of a nut cracker or a bite with her teeth, and pulled out the meat she wanted inside her.
In her seventies, she started getting mild stomach pains. "Probably something I ate," Anne speculated.
A woman from a city in the U.S. where pecans are grown taught Anne how to rub the thin, light brown shells of two of them together until they cracked, revealing sweet, buttery meat. She also taught her to move the nuts around her tongue, so she wouldn't miss a single sensuous experience.
Anne's stomach pain worsened. She had trouble eating anything without pain developing. Frightened because cancer runs in their family, her daughter rushed Anne to a doctor. He said she had diverticulitis. She had to change her diet, and she had to ditch her nutty lovers.
At a family party, relish trays were set up for guests inbibing before dinner. So were bowls of nuts.
With a sinking pain in her stomach caused by the loss of her lovers, a tear rolled down Anne's cheek as she looked at the tan walnuts in a sterling silver bowl on the kitchen bar. She drank a martini.
"Take me," said the dry, bitter native of Mexico through its craggy shell. "You know you can see my erect ridges once you crack my shell."
"Maybe it was the martini," she thought. "Or maybe the stress of the breakup had caused her to lose her mind."
She grabbed her cane and walked by the dark brown chestnuts in a cut-glass bowl on the gleaming teak dining table. "Remember when I wasn't around," the chestnut asked?" She furrowed her brow, thinking. "You couldn't wait until fall arrived, so you could grab me from the store shelf, rush me home, and roast me in the oven," said the chestnut from Asia.
Remembering, she moved as briskly as she could to the white Scan sofa, plopped against a rust-colored throw pillow, and looked into a bowl of cashews on the coffee table. Her mouth watered.
A half-hour of ecstasy with the sweet kidney-shaped nuts wasn't worth the horrendous pain, and possible constipation and bleeding, that might follow, she decided.
Sitting next to her granddaughter, she said with a gleam in her eyes, "The first thing I'm going to do when I get to heaven is ask St. Peter for a bowl of nuts."
