Of all the fruit that grows at Campo di Pere, Pata likes the cherries best. I’m partial to the figs. And the pears. I like the cherries too, but not nearly as much as she does.
Once, when she was two, she spoke once of wanting to pick cherries in such a way that it seemed poetry to me. (Such are the delusions of motherhood, I suppose). I wrote her words down on a scrap of paper that I conserved for three years, folded up in a drawer, wanting to keep them only for myself, until I realized that there is no point in beauty that is hidden. So I will share it with you:
Have to wait.
little, little, coconut cherry.
I’m not sure where the coconut came from, but who am I to question the poetic license of a toddler?
Last Sunday we went up to Campo di Pere to check on the cherries and found them almost ripe. We picked a few that were already deep red, and ate them then and there. This year a second cherry tree has started to fruit, so if we’re lucky, and we get back to the cherries before thieves discover they’re ripe, we’ll have more than we’ve ever had before. I’m already imaging all the clafoutis I’ll get to bake, but I’m sure Pata is just thinking about eating cherries.