There was a day when Chris and I would strip a tree clean in under half an hour. Reflective, now I pick alone; at least the lower branches where the ripe red fruit glows in the morning light like tasty rubies begging admiring sighs of one who lovingly will play with them in their final wash by man-made rain. Suds will form like in a royal bubblebath to froth in angry fermentation.
The tree gives up the jewels it clutches in its many hands. The fruit gives up its juices into wine.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
All these posts about fruit-picking and jam-making conjures such memories of my grandparents’ kitchen that was always busy. These memories often turn into phantom scents and sounds that always make me a little glum that I will never taste her zuchini bread (the only way I would ever eat that vegetable) or apple pies or currant jelly again.
But gram would never stand for my glumness, and that makes these flashes of my childhood turn into wistful smiles and a certain kind of inspiration that any children I am blessed with will have such memories of their own.
Thanks, Susan 🙂
You’re smart to consider that all times spent with kids are opportunities to make memories that survive generations. And, I do hope you and Kas are blessed with children some day because I know you’ll make great parents.
I can always send you my zucchini bread recipe…
Kas loves to bake, and my grandmother’s recipes are who knows where. (I have to get back to CT to see if I can locate them.)
So yeah, I would be happy to get that recipe.. Thanks!