Don't get me wrong: I love apples.

But when's the last time that you bit into an apple and had juice run down your forearm and drip from your elbow?

A good pear is truly a full-body experience.

Pears. I just ate my first one of the season. OMGs.

The Witch Goddess's sacred flower is, of course, the Rose, but the Rose family is a large one. Apples are roses. So are pears. Cut one with the stem. Like an apple, it will show forth the Flower of Life. And cut across the stem, behold: the Fivefold Star of Rebirth.

We've been eating pears for a long time: since, apparently, the Neolithic, if not before. They ate them in the Lake Villages of Stone Age Switzerland. They're mentioned in Linear B inscriptions from Mycenaean Greece. The name pear comes ultimately from Latin, which got it from Greek, which got it from the Phoenicians (p'ri = “fruit”).

And every pear's a little goddess. Hold one in your hand. It's like one of those big-hipped Mamas that the ancestors made to make the garden grow. It irks me when people say that a situation has gone “pear-shaped” to mean that it's gone wrong. Is the implication really that perfection = round? Round things roll away and break. Low centers of gravity mean stability.

A pear is a study in contrasts: taut, leathery skin, lush, juicy flesh. And oh, that perfume.

Put those hard, green pears from the store into a brown paper bag. Every morning, take one out and smell. Your nose will tell you when it's ready to eat.

Then sit back and prepare to experience one of the great joys of winter.

And have you ever had pear cider? It's even got its own name: perry. They've been pressing pears since the Middle Ages, and there's really nothing like it. Fortunately, it's now commercially available. Good perry is like champagne.

Pears. Oh Em Jeeze.

And every one's a goddess.