Last Sunday, as I pared through these plums, sweet, pink yet barely-colored juices dribbled down my hands, under my nails, and all over my cutting board. But to my eyes, they were bloody red and left stains. I swore. I slashed harder, ripping through the smooth but relentlessly taut skin and piercing the just-ripe flesh, with vigor, down to the core. I cursed it. I took out every ounce of anger I had on that natural, living object.
I’ve been feeling off. The preceding Sunday, I had delicious plans for six black beauties that I had ripening away on the counter. My vision for them combined a recipe over which I have been lusting for a couple of years with two pastries I had eaten at two local bakeries. A trifecta of pastry perfection, you could say. I got caught up. I forgot. And then it would be too late. I forgot? There would be no plums that day.