Plum Blossoms

From about ages 7 to 12,  I lived in a pretty little Spanish Colonial home on the dark side of a mountain valley.  It has been a shock to realize that was our home for only five years.  In my mind it was THE childhood home.  My sister and her husband bought it, in one of life's lovely symmetries, and are raising their own family there now, and their tenancy has already far surrpassed that of our childhood.

It was a creamy stucco, with the iconic toit de tuiles rouges.  (That is one of those strange phrases that sometimes stick over the course of foreign language instruction.  One of my friends held onto the German term for commemorative stamp, which by far trumps my retention of the French for red tile roof .)

Some dreamy caretaker had planted plum trees in front.  These are small trees, locally called sand plums, although for some reason I was CERTAIN that my mother had taught me they were called Japanese plums.  I thought then, and think now, that those inky purple leaves and faintly bloodied white blossoms are the most achingly beautiful sign of spring.  As a particularly sentimental child, I earmarked such literary encounters as  On The Banks of Plum Creek and a sweet story of a plum tree and a lonely girl in Japan as references for my personal aesthetic.  Connected, of course, only by the reference to plums, these two titles nevertheless seem to have echoes in later years- of course my fascination with westward expansion has never palled, and then there was that naive trip to Japan.

Plums themselves, in fact, rarely satisfy.  The flesh never seems to quite compensate for the bite of the tart skin.  Apparently, however, I have not been persistent enough.  Browsing through the internet's offerings about plums, plum compote, plum tart, plum brandy, plum PLUMs... it's clear that my exposure has been sadly limited.

Liz?