Cherries (really, any of the soft fruits) can sometimes gives me a problem in my old age living in the UK. It comes from growing up on what they call in Britain a "fruit farm'. We had an orchard. We grew apples and cherries (in the North Okanagan, British Columbia. It was too far north for peaches, apricots and pears but they were a-plenty in season.)
These seaonsal thoughts come about because I had a recent conversation where I was being 'enlightened' about cherries. I thought to myself "D'ya know... I could write a book about cherries!"
In fact, it reminds me of Isak Dinesen aka Karen Blizen's book Out of Africa where her opening line is:
"I had a farm in Africa..."
Yes, I would start the book
"We had an orchard."
Maybe I should stick to painting ... like this one:
However here is my treat to myself today:
The first of the season's cherries 'Giant Prime', very fresh, which came from Spain (don't think about the air miles!). They are not Okanagan, but never mind ... plus some roses from the garden and a glass of wine courtesy of Mairi.
And here is one of my favourite old photos (early 1970s). It is our cherry stand on the Trans-Canada Highway. Plywood sides, cardboard containers holding 25 cents a pound fruit and wee new baby Kim in the weighing scales next to the area where we washed and patted dry the cherries before filling each box on the scales. Would those be my mother's roses in the lower right triangle shape in the photo? (People used to remark on those roses as much as the fruit, as I recall!)