Category: plums

Pale Spring

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photo by Chris Lovegren from our farm hilltop, Easter Sunrise 2012
photo by Chris Lovegren from our farm hilltop

“So fair, so cold; like a morning of pale spring still clinging to winter’s chill.”
~ J.R.R Tolkien

Clear and sunny skies on the second day of spring were full of deception today — no warmth emanates from a dimming sunlight stark with shocking briskness from a chill wind.

It’s all show without actually delivering the goods.  We have clawed our way out of winter, trying to shake off the frost and leave it far behind, seeking out encouraging sightings of buds and blooms and blossoms.

Maybe tomorrow morning, or perhaps the next.

Just maybe.

Or not.

twins
Twin Sisters from our farm hill, photo by Emily Gibson

 

It is Time

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photo by Josh Scholten

“Lord, it is time.  The summer was very big.  Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose.  Command the last fruits that they shall be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine.”
~  Rainer Maria Rilke

The wind is shifting, the sky filling with moody clouds, the temperatures dropping.  The fruit still hanging is being naturally chilled.  There is something about a near-frost that sweetens the flesh of the grapes, the apples, the pears and the corn cobs as if each is gathering up every sugar molecule for self-protection.  We are the beneficiaries.

October is time for a hurried harvest before the hard freeze hits, leaving all in ruin, turned to mush.  The window of time to accomplish the gathering and preserving has narrowed.  No longer is the picking done leisurely with a temptation for it to be put off until tomorrow.  Today is the day.

It is time.  All is ripe.

photo by Josh Scholten

Radiant Plums

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And somehow Hallie thrived anyway–the blossom of our family, like one of those miraculous fruit trees that taps into an invisible vein of nurture and bears radiant bushels of plums while the trees around it merely go on living.
~Barbara Kingsolver in Animal Dreams

There is a plum tree on our farm that is so plain and unassuming most of the year that I nearly forget that it is there.  It is a bit off by itself away from the other fruit trees; I have to make a point of paying attention to it otherwise it just blends into the scenery.

Despite not being noticed or having any special care, this tree thrives.  In the spring it is one of the first to bud out into a cloud of white blossoms with a faint sweet scent.  Every summer it is a coin toss whether it will decide to bear fruit or not.  Some years–not at all, not a single plum.  Other years, like this one, it is positively glowing with plum harvest– each a golden oval with a pink blush.   These plums are extraordinarily honey flavored and juicy, a pleasure to eat right off the tree if you don’t mind getting past a bitter skin and an even more bitter pit inside.   This is a beauty with a bite.  I think the tree secretly grins when it sees puckering taking place all around it.

This tree is a lot like some people I know:  most of the time barely noticeable, hanging on the periphery,  fairly reserved and unobtrusive.  But when roots go deep and the nourishment is substantial,  they bear fruit, no doing things half-way.   The feast is plentiful and abundant, the meal glorious despite the hint of sour.  Maybe it is even more glorious because of the hint of sour.

If “tucker” describes a great down-home meal, then being “plum tuckered” sounds positively wonderful.

But I suspect plum tuckered is really about what happens after picking and preserving hundreds of these radiant gems.

It’s time for bed.  I’m both kinds of plum tuckered.