Winter Woes

I can't say I hate winter. Even on days like today where the wet snow makes a mess of the city streets, and causes otherwise normal people to act like lunatics, I still don't hate winter.

Some, I'm sure, would account my Canadian upbringing to my unhatred of the season. But, in truth, it's more a function of food and fashion. In winter, I can eat hearty and fulfilling meals without fear of exposing the muffin top, which I can easily and fashionably hide under a lovely sweater or a well-tailored coat!

My one regret of winter, however, is the lack of fruit available to me. I love fruit, but I really hate eating fruit in the winter that has been sitting in transport for days, if not weeks, only to be delivered to the market looking pallid, joyless and tasteless.

So, today as I crave juicy watermelon, citrus-y pineapple or a slippery mango, I remember my trip to Mexico. Fruit - locally grown, uberfresh and rainbow-coloured - was available at my every turn. Even walking around the city at all hours there would be a fruit stand calling me to have a taste!

Summer, along with the fruits it bears, is just around the corner, right?

Cherry-Flavoured Memories

While I was at the market the other day I spotted a towering display of cherries. Cherries are one of my favourite summer fruits - not simply for their sweet juiciness, but for the memories they recall - so I couldn't resist.

As a child, my father, brothers and I would spend summer Saturday afternoons in my grandparents' backyard. Like most nonni, their yard wasn't conducive to child's play; instead it was dedicated to growing vegetables (tomatoes, zucchini, and verdura of all kinds) and fruit, most notably their two monstrous cherry trees.

So instead of playing, my brothers and I were free to climb the trees. It was good fun for us kiddies, but for the adults it was a way to collect the cherries easily and quickly. We were always given pails to collect our fruit, so we could enjoy them like "civilized people" at the table. But I never descended with much to share.

There were two reasons for this. First, I only wanted to fill my pail with the reddest, juiciest, sweetest cherries I could find. The problem, however, was that when I found them I had to give them a try to see if their taste matched the promise made by their beautiful appearance. I did this time and time again.

When I tired of eating cherries, or more likely, my belly ached with over-consumption, I'd begin searching for the nastiest, worm-infested cherries I could find. Why? Well, I wouldn't want to waste a good cherry when pelleting my brothers on the other branches, of course!

The cherry trees don't blossom as they once did. It seems that once their main caregiver passed on, so too did many of their buds.

Although my market-bought cherries don't match the taste of my nonno's home-grown cherries, they do bring forth sweet memories of childhood.