I’ve always loved fruit. My mom, the Notorious Babs, instilled this in me. We would park ourselves in apricot and cherry trees and strawberry patches and gorge like bear cubs, and then think about canning, freezing, jam, and pies later.
And in some of my lowest moments, kind souls have shown up with random acts of fruit generosity. I have tasted a Colson Creek peach so sweet and juicy that it took my mind off pain and misery; I’ve had a cotton shopping bag full of Terrace Street pears delivered to me that saved me from going to the grocery store at time when I could not bear to go.
And two days ago, while Chef and I were in Coronavirus quarantine in Argentina subsisting on a dozen carne empanadas, our new landlady Liliana brought us plums from her tree.
This sweet gesture triggered a memory of a poem I had enjoyed once. Google helped me remember that it was William Carlos Williams’ “This is Just to Say”.
I have eaten
that were in
you were probably
they were delicious
and so cold