So Many Plums

This was the year for an abundance of plums, the fruitlets spared by the absence of frost. The tree was leaning, the branches drooping with a curtain of fruit downward plunging. Such was the challenge of so many plums – how much could we cope with? What would be lost? Each gust of wind the ripe fruit scattering, the dark red plums ready for gathering. What to do with the abundance of plums? – some stewed then stoned to use for plum crumble, some straight to the mouth, juice from my lips dripping; bags in the freezer with one of them leaking. To raise a glass for this surfeit of plums, into a bucket the ripest would tumble - nine kilos of plums in hot water steeping, then syrup added with yeast for fermenting. Juice remaining for a cordial of plums, which went well with tonic and of course gin. We ran out of jars for jam we were making, so sieved the rest, then further reducing concentrated the taste of so many plums - confection perfection (perhaps also a sin). Indulgence redeemed through gifting and sharing and a crate at the gate for neighbours passing. I ask what is this tree that gave us these plums? - it has dark red leaves like Burgundy wine. That the tree might expire I was fearing; so I pruned back branches, the plum curtain drawing. Lastly for pigs a barrow load of plums should flavour some pork to dine with plum wine, plum crumble follows plus double cream topping, the surfeit continues. (Inside I’m cramping!)