I had never picked cherries. When I was a little girl, cherries magically appeared to me, in a crinkled and scrunched up brown paper bag with the top rolled down, proffered by my beautiful granny on a Saturday afternoon after her mid-morning trip to the greengrocers at the top of her road. We spent afternoons searching for “twins” that I could wear as earrings, and if I heard my granny tell me not to swallow the stone once, she told me a hundred, loving, granny-loves-you-so-much times.
Our garden grew the most glorious powder pink cherry blossom tree – but no cherries. During a particularly hot Summer whilst I was at law school, I joined a team of travelling gypsies at the local farm and picked earwig-strewn redcurrants with my mum – but never cherries.
Supermarket cherries are hard and they make me squish my face up as the sourness injects itself into my tastebuds. I’d never tasted REAL cherries. Not until this week.