Gifts of Many Plums

13th August 2011 Saturday

When I arrive at my father’s this afternoon he says,

‘Don’t sit down. I want you to peel me some of those Victoria plums you brought me.’

I’m so happy to find him a fruit that he likes, that isn’t too sour, that grew on the allotment. And there is an endless supply of them in our shed. They are very beautiful - long oval orbs, dusty pink skin verging on mauve, pale yellow flesh inside, warm and perfumed. But when I hand over bagfuls to the neighbours I advise caution as some of them - the biggest and prettiest - are hiding tiny, wriggling, pink caterpillars. They make a maze of gritty brown grooves in the meat of the plum spoiling the pleasure of that first luscious bite. I am well warned though and today I cut out all the bad bits and ended up with three kilos for the freezer. For that day in the hazy future when I’ll have time to make plum jam.

My father wants to talk about last night - he tried every single dish of the Middle Eastern Mezze meal I made for the birthday supper - and pronounced the babaganoush( although he can’t remember its name) and grilled halloumi cheese as his favourites. And the potatoes baked in salt with whole roasted garlic. And the beetroot with tatziki. And the honey mascapone cream on the carrot walnut cake.

But mostly he wants to remember his great grandson who he saw again for the second time last night and who he calls Little Snooks. I can feel the weight of him in my arms now - the back of his silk head against my shoulder and the delight he brings to the face of my sister when his blue blue eyes latch onto hers and he smiles a smile to capture your heart forever.

Now my husband is calling me - the bath is ready. I still haven’t packed. We are going away for four days tomorrow - visiting friends and family in Brighton and London. Bearing gifts of many plums.