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Lorraine Mace |
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Aimez-vous les Cerises? |
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Derek and I have decided to adopt siege tactics this year. We’re going to bar the shutters, not answer the telephone, and only walk the dog under cover of darkness. This sad state of affairs all started with a bunch of carrots… Before we’d discovered the names of our neighbours, we’d allocated them nicknames. The man at the far end has converted more than half his garden into vegetable beds, earning the title monsieur légume. The chap next to him concentrates on fruit trees. Regardless of weather, he is diligent in feeding, pruning and tending his orchard. We named him the tree surgeon. Unaware that a fierce rivalry existed between them, we’d inadvertently showed undue favour to monsieur légume, who’d asked if we liked vegetables. From that day on carrots, potatoes, lettuce, courgettes and anything else of which he had a surplus, appeared, as if by magic, hanging from our fence in a plastic bag. Then came June. “Aimez-vous les cerises?” asked monsieur légume. The next day two carrier bags were suspended from the fence, both full to the brim with juicy red cherries. Regardless of how fond one is of cherries, there is a limit to the amount that can be eaten. It was a frightening thought, but I’d have to spend some time in the kitchen. Nigella Lawson need have no fear that I might supplant her. No sane person would describe me as a goddess, domestic or otherwise, but something had to be done with our bounty. Cherry pies, cherry crumble and pickled cherries accumulated. I ended the day with a glow of satisfaction for an unaccustomed job well done. The following morning another bag was hanging on the fence. The tree surgeon, who had for months watched our ferrying of produce with a jaundiced eye, called out: “Aimez-vous les cerises?” As I was carrying a bag of cherries at the time, what else could I say but yes? Later that afternoon the telephone rang; it was Mrs tree surgeon to say that her husband was waiting for me at his fence. He triumphantly handed over four carrier bags of fruit. With a sinking heart I realised that making jam was the only answer. My daughter, who had arrived for a holiday, was put to work alongside my husband removing the stones. A few near disasters later and the jars were full, labelled and stacked in the cellar. The following morning we peered fearfully at both fences. Fantastic! Not a cherry in sight. I returned to my writing, Derek listened to music, and Michelle read a book on the terrace. A shadow fell across the page; she looked up to find the tree surgeon smiling happily, proffering two buckets of cherries. Her holiday French is improving. She can say bon jour and even ask a creditable ça va? But “where shall I put the buckets?” was beyond her. After yet more baking, pickling and cherry eating, it was wonderful when our friends Claude and Lucy invited us for an aperitif. As this always drifts gradually into a delightful evening of informal dining, it was with real pleasure that we accepted. Our spirits restored by good food and conversation, we rose to return home. Lucy rushed inside, returning with a bag of cherries. “Un cadeau. Because you have no tree of your own” This year we do. Planted in the autumn, it’s a poor, pathetic, spindly thing that will not bear fruit this year. Which is why, until the cherry season is over, we are staying inside. “Aimez-vous les cerises?” Not anymore. © Lorraine Mace 2004
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