I’m a Cherry Pitter

This is evidence of being an overprotective mom – or a moron. Summertime, and Vivien loves cherries.  I painstakingly cut out the pit of every cherry she consumes.

Manual cherry pitting

She is nearly three, so maybe she could figure out not to swallow that large, hard thing in the middle.

I say to Mark, “Why don’t they invent something to take pits out of cherries?”  Since he is a chef and in the know he says, “They did, it’s called a cherry pitter.” Kind that he didn’t add “duh” at the end of that sentence, like I probably would have.

The name of this tool comes back to me like a dream. The question is, why didn’t I buy one? 1) I forgot it existed, but 2) even if I did buy it, summer would end and it would go in that drawer in the kitchen with the gadgets and matches and rubber bands. And June would roll around again, and I would have momnesia, and I wouldn’t see it in the back of the drawer.  That’s how I’m justifying it.

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