Medlar In the evening of this modern day, when the word chaste is unknown to many, I eat a metaphor after dinner. A single ‘open-erse fruit’, dressed in paper stippled with little flecks, its soft brown flesh is compliant to the tongue. A kind of rosehip that must soften to mush before it is ready, like a medieval persimmon. But this is mere botany. Castus, casta, castum was one of your Latin vocab words this week. Too easy. With poverty and obedience it made your vows, as they were in Chaucer's time. Stop ten people in the street today: who can define them? One who knows the bletted medlar tastes like butter and vanilla.
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