My good friend and neighbour, José, phoned me yesterday morning to say that there were plenty of cherries, and we were free to help ourselves (he does this each year).
He has 3 main cherry trees which come into ripeness one after the other. Yesterday it was the turn of his middle tree, so with walking stick (to pull down the branches) and small basket in hand, off we went.
We always do the same thing with cherries. We dream of making clafoutis, of making jam, or steeping them in eau-de-vie even. But it never happens; we return home munching on cherries, and spitting out the pips as we go. Usually, by the time we get home, there remains just a few bird-bitten or manky stragglers, which get put into a bowl, and consumed over the following hour or so.
In a couple of days time we'll return to José's tree, and do the same thing again; possibly promising to make sorbet or some other delight, and perfectly aware that the cherries will never make it as far as the house. Spitting cherry pips must count amongst my favourite early June pastimes.
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