Alas, I have had to come to terms with the end of what was
once a beautiful relationship. For many years, cherries and I had an annual
affair filled with passion during which time I devoured as many as I could
before the season turned.
Holding a cherry to your lips, feeling the smooth, tight
skin stretched over the yielding flesh, trembling slightly as it dangled from
its slender stalk, before a tug with the lips pulled it into my mouth. The
first squeeze of teeth releasing a rich squirt of juice. Using the tongue to
extract the pit. Again and again.
But this year I have to admit that the noble cherry, for all
its beauty, has proven to be a lover I have no stomach for. Literally. My human
digestive tract has no means of processing the cellulose which forms their
skin. Let’s just say that the undigested cellulose does not make friends with
my lower abdomen.
The trouble is that otherwise, cherries are really good for
you. Packed full of vitamins A and B, and anthocyanin — the stuff that makes
fruits and vegetables dark in color and which acts as a powerful
anti-inflammatory. The trouble with summer is that there is such a wealth of
delicious fruit that it’s all I want to eat.
Every year I make a mental Note To Self when my belly
becomes so bloated I feel like I could float away: maybe it’s time to end this
affair. Fruit salad — goodbye. Clafloutis – farewell.
See you next year.
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