Gumersindo went out for chestnuts with a basket, a new hat and far too much confidence. He saw a green burr on the ground, picked it up with his bare hand and dropped it with a jump. We were still closing the door when we heard him arguing with the tree.
«You bastard! I came for a snack, not for surgery!»
Brígida showed him her gloves. He said they weren't needed, that he'd grabbed the chestnut by the wrong side. We bent down to look. The prickly little sod had prickles all over. Gumersindo turned it with a stick, looking for the friendly side. He was still looking when we sat down to rest.
It's annoying, because the chestnut is beautiful. Shiny, round, practically begging to be roasted. But first you meet a wrapper that puts you off sticking your hand in. It's not wearing it to keep warm. The prickles make it harder for animals to get at the nuts while they're still developing.
The snack also wants to live
That wrapper is called a burr. The chestnut is the fruit and inside is a seed with the chance to become another chestnut tree. We see dinner. The tree is trying to grow the next generation. No wonder it doesn't make everything dead easy for the first greedy sods who pass by.
When chestnuts ripen, the burr opens and lets them out. You don't have to fight it like a brute. Even so, the prickles aren't a perfect defence. Squirrels manage to eat them and also hide some away. If one is forgotten and finds good conditions, it can sprout.
Gumersindo listened with his hands behind his back. A moment ago he wanted to fill the basket and now he said we were blocking the forest's future. Brígida fished two chestnuts out of his pocket. The cheeky sod had picked them up during his own speech. She struggled to keep a straight face.
«These are just to check the tree's doing alright,» Gumersindo said.
We only picked a few that had fallen, where it was allowed, and left the rest for the animals and the forest itself. Brígida reminded us that horse chestnuts aren't safe to eat. They're not the same. If we can't recognise the tree, we leave them there. Gumersindo decided he recognised the basket perfectly and offered to carry it.
The anti-prickle invention
On the way back he got the idea of using an empty burr to protect his snack. He put it in front of his seat and announced that nobody would get near his portion. He sat watching us with his arms crossed. He was so hungry his belly was rumbling, but he liked showing off that nobody would nick anything from him.
Brígida left a bowl of already roasted chestnuts in the middle of the table. She'd bought them that morning. The ones from the walk were put aside. We waited for the roasted ones to cool enough to handle and started peeling them. Bloody lovely. Warm fingers, full mouths and nowhere we needed to rush off to.
Gumersindo wanted to take his portion to the other end of the table. He put the peeled chestnuts in his hat to carry them all at once. Then he started explaining how he was going to improve his defence. With two burrs, he said, even hunger couldn't get in.
We kept eating and let him talk. Brígida handed him a warm cup. Gumersindo stood up to thank her, picked up the hat out of habit and plonked it on his head. He'd forgotten about the chestnuts. They all fell down his forehead.
One got stuck behind his ear. Another went into his waistcoat. The last one came out of his trouser leg and rolled over to Brígida. Nobody had crossed his prickly barrier. He'd robbed himself, from top to bottom.
We helped him get his dinner out of his clothes between great fits of laughter. Then we filled a plate for him, because a friend can be a loudmouth and still deserve a warm snack.
Gumersindo looked at the empty burr and pushed it away with the spoon.
"Tomorrow we'll get muffins. At least those come in paper knickers."
