Cherry Picking

If I told you I went cherry-picking with the babes in my neighbourhood last week you might be forgiven for immediately imagining I live somewhere like this

In reality? Uh, more like this:

Yeah, inner city life.

But within the constraints of circumstance we battle to find beauty and wholesome living nonetheless, and we are very fortunate to live on a street with cherry trees.

In spring the bloom is simply breath-taking - an avenue of confetti which, my eldest says, looks like tree icing, and my youngest says looks like ’snow trees’. One could almost forget about the grime, burned out cars and rats. Almost.

Picking our way over discarded fridges, garden waste and various metal objects, the babes and I harvested a crop of wild cherries right outside our back gate. The birds were perplexed for they had never seen such madness - never. And yes, we got a few strange looks from passing residents who quite clearly thought we were nuts.

We payed them no heed. The children picked and held the basket and proudly walked home to show their Dad the fruits of their hard work.

They tried a few and looked like they were sucking on lemons. Hm, yes a tad bitter and acidic, and as a nation we have become to used to the sweet tasteless “black gobstoppers” as Jane calls them, but these are just right for baking with.

And what else - Cherry Clafoutis, naturally.

A lesson in beauty where you find it and the early bird catches the worm, or in this case, fruit, much to the chagrin of the perplexed blackbirds…