Today I made stewed plums from plums grown on a tree in my yard. It was something I just
had to do.
I lived in St Kilda when I was a kid. My maternal grandparents lived in Dandenong. I spent a fair portion of each school holidays over there. There was a cousin, only 6 months younger than me. We were inseparable. Whether it was ducking through the back fence to the park on the other side, or walking to the top of the hill that made up the court and riding tricycles, then later skateboards, back down, we were rarely apart.
The highlights of the summers were Nanna putting a tray of ice on the floor in front of a fan - you could call it the '70's version of a portable air conditioner, we two girls would lie on our bellies licking the ice. And, there was the plum tree. We would search the tree for ripe ones; we could never wait. Most were firm and bitter, but we ate them anyway. Then we would luck onto an early ripener which renewed our resolve to find that next beauty.
Eventually it would be announced that the plums were ready. We would pick bucket loads of the fruit, take it inside and spend the next couple of hours washing, cutting, pitting; the juice staining our fingers purple. Nanna would stew them and bottle them and we would have them served up for dessert day after day; the tart fruit complementing the ice cream.
Blood plums: I never could get the taste out of my head. I bought things labeled "Blood plums" when I saw them in the supermarket or where-ever, but they never tasted the same.
Then, a few months ago, I moved house. There were two plum trees, but I didn't really think about those Dandenong plums until the trees were well along in their plum plumping and the fruits of one of those trees started to look familiar. At first, so as not to get my hopes up, I told myself it was probably just wishful thinking. Then they started to go red; dark red like the memories, but I wasn't convinced until I found one I deemed 'ripe enough' and tasted it.
There I was again, going to the tree daily, or more, searching, searching for any that looked like they'd ripened since my last inspection. Many of those early ones were firm and bitter, but I ate them anyway. I was better at judging them now, perhaps less hasty, so the beauties, when I could find them, made up a greater proportion.
Last week I went to South Australia for a week and I was all worried that I'd come back and the plums would be all dropped on the ground. There were a lot of plums on the ground when I got back, but still plenty on the tree. Many had been pecked by birds but there was no shortage of unblemished ripe red memories. Yesterday, I had plums fresh off the tree for breakfast, lunch and tea.
Today I took a large bowl to the tree, filled it with the best plums I could find, brought them inside, washed them, halved them, dug out the stones, put them in a pot of boiling syrup, and sat back to admire my purple-stained hands. Nanna died a few years ago so I had to resort to Google to get some clues as to the proportions of sugar/water/plums, but I remembered the process from 30-odd years ago. I let it cool a bit then put some warm plums in a bowl with some ice cream.
It was
perfect.
