I look at pears very differently from St. Augustine, who – in his youth – stole pears from a tree near his parents’ vineyard. Years later, racked with guilt, he wrote in his Confessions, “But since my pleasure was not in those pears, it was in the offence itself, ….”
Bliss for me is wiping ripe pear juice off my chin and watching the morning sunshine light up my kitchen. The aroma takes me back to my childhood, where I – being too small to shake the branches – foraged among the fallen pears for those uninvaded by wasps and bees. Sitting among the leaves, my knees caked with dirt, I would hold my treasures up to my nose and inhale. Then with a dollop of spit, I wiped the tender pear skin on my T-shirt. The first bite, sheer bliss.
Not a guilty pleasure at all.
© 2014 C. Bertelsen
CYNTHIA D. BERTELSEN 
I feel the same way about fresh peaches! The heady aroma, the juices dribbling down my chin ummmm — summer’s delight I anticipate yearly.
Debra, the secret is in the first bite, I guess. Also the aroma. Thanks for commenting!
=) Pears are kind of like the lottery for me. I love it when they are ripe and full of juice but I can never guess when a pear is at peak ripeness. So sometimes it is mush and sometimes too hard … but no matter … I keep on trying. You sound like you might know the secret to selecting the perfect pear.