A Little Night Mischief

Oh, people, people—the things we get ourselves into while running on little sleep and more than a little stress. At least that’s what I am blaming it on. Yes, siree. I blame it on the deadline.

Why else would a perfectly sane and somewhat normal girl such as myself (those who know me can politely keep their laugher to themselves, thank you very much).

What was I saying? Oh yes, sane and somewhat normal—that’s me. Except last night, in the middle of the night, I found myself doing something quite odd.

I blame it on the fruit trees. Yes, the fruit trees I see in people’s yards just laden with beautiful fruit. There were the lemon trees in San Mateo—all those lovely Meyer lemons that no one was taking advantage of. Then there was the crazy prolific plum tree that looked like it was producing Easter Eggs. This fall there have been apple trees as well. What can I say, I just hate seeing fruit not being put to good use.

And right now, just three blocks away from my house, is a quince tree with plenty of fruit. Quince! Hardly anyone knows what to do with quince any more. The fruit is just falling to the ground.

At the farmers’ market the other week quince was selling for eight dollars a pound.

I promised myself that I would write a note to the owners of the lovely quince tree. Not only because I would like to make off with their unused bounty, but also because I think we should be friends. I base this idea solely on the fact that their house looks like it ought to be in Provence rather than Seattle and this makes me terribly happy. Also, they have a car that looks just like this.

Call me shallow, but I like people with unusual style.

And then there’s the quince.

In my head I had already drafted the letter—a nice offer to give their neglected fruit a good home, and to give them jars of quince jam in return. Who would say no to that? Especially as said fruit is currently rotting on their lawn.

I know this for a fact because tonight I walked past their house on the way to the bus stop and I saw it. I had almost written out my note and brought it with me to stick in their mailbox, but on rushing out of the house at the last minute I hadn’t had the time. And anyway, I still have a deadline to contend with. I can write the note over the weekend. By then I’ll actually have time to do something with the quince when they say yes.

And of course they will say yes, because they have style.

I’m sure you can appreciate my logic.

Well tonight, coming home from dinner and wearing my nifty rain hat that makes me feel like Holly Golightly, I walked down the hill and past their house again. It was dark and wet and I had to walk carefully because I was wearing a short wool skirt and knee-high boots.

We work-at-home writers—when we do actually manage to get out of the house—we like to show a little bit of flair.

Either that or all our casual clothes happen to be in the dirty laundry bin.

As I was walking past the lovely little house that ought to be in Provence, I could hear the raindrops on the leaves of the quince tree. Most of the other trees around here have lost their leaves already, but the quince is still going strong.

Then I smelled it—the scent of quince fruit in the rain. I find quince rather intoxicating at any time, but the smell of quince in the rain has a fragrance that is at once lovely and mournful, like an old woman who was once very beautiful. It is a scent of another era, gracious and elegant and yet very sad.

I needed to have those quince.

I looked up and down the street and couldn’t see anyone. I looked at the houses nearby, and didn’t notice anyone peering out at me, wondering what that very stylishly dressed girl was doing out in the rain. And even if someone did see me, would they think it strange if I just ducked down quickly and grabbed one of the quince that happened to be sitting on the sidewalk next to my boot? Maybe they’d assume I was tying a shoelace or something.

Boots don’t generally have shoelaces, but I wasn't going to let that stop me.



The problem is, once I had one quince I needed more. What can you do with just one quince?

So I grabbed another. Then another. Then I noticed that there were more quince that had rolled down to where the garbage cans were stored, behind a nifty little wooden gate (see, I told you, these folks are stylish, even their garbage area is stylish). So I ducked back in there and grabbed those as well.

Then I saw some more, up on the lawn, just under the tree itself.

This was clearly trespassing—the lawn is elevated up from the sidewalk, the bank shored up by large stones. But I needed to save those quince, needed to give them a good home.

I cannot tell you how lovely they smelled; they’d just go to waste without me.

So there I was, scaling the bank, clambering up and over large stones—all wearing a short skirt and knee-high boots, in the rain, in the middle of the night.

I blame the deadline. Or the intoxicating fragrance of quince. Or the Holly Golightly hat—she set an awful example when it came to stealing things.

I don’t think anyone saw me. I hope not. This is the sort of neighborhood where things like that just aren’t done. I’d hate to be shunned at the next annual block party.

But I was wearing a hat, so they probably couldn’t technically ID me (though with the newfangled DNA tests you never can tell). I think I’m safe. I can always say it was some crazy friend in town visiting. Some girl obsessed with quince.


{Portrait of an unexpected quince thief}

All I can tell you is that it’s a very smart thing to always carry a reusable shopping bag in your purse wherever you go. You never know when you might find yourself stealing fruit in the middle of the night.

The fact that shopping bag matches Holly Golightly hat is purely coincidental, but clearly the hat was to blame.



What am I going to do with my stolen quince? Well, there's this and this to start with. That should keep me busy for a while. In fact, I might have to go back for more...