The church bells rang at four o’clock. The afternoon felt warm, noticeably milder than some of the chillier days in May.
“Bing bang!” Lulu cried with a smile. She was used to the steady rhythm of the village bells, chiming at every hour—one o’clock, one thirty, two o’clock. I spread a blanket under the cherry tree and settled down.
Lulu collected pebbles and dropped them one by one into a small metal bucket my father keeps outside. A gentle breeze threaded through the leaves and caught her attention. I looked up and saw patches of red hidden among the foliage—proof the cherries were finally ripening.
“On les cueille dans quelques jours?” I asked my father as he passed by. He’d scolded me earlier for stealing a few unripe cherries, warning, “Tu vas avoir mal au ventre,” in that gentle, fatherly tone.
Did I care? Fresh cherries are a weakness. Fruit picked straight from the tree feels essential. I was happy to be there at this late-starting season, watching the trees finally deliver their bounty.
The next day my father leaned a ladder against the tree and started picking. After an hour we had several buckets filled with glossy, ripe cherries.
Lulu watched from a short distance, running back and forth with excitement, offering cherries to anyone who would accept one. My father lifted her up close to the branches. “Prends une cerise,” he whispered, encouraging her to pick a few herself. Hesitant at first, she reached out and plucked a bright red cherry, the proud look on her face unforgettable.
“Je fais un dessert aux cerises ce soir?” I asked—shall I make a cherry dessert?
There was no need to ask twice. After salads and grilled venison steaks we finished the meal with cherries baked in an almond flan made from eggs, sugar, butter, cream and almond meal. It was a simple, quick dessert—perfect to close an outdoor dinner with grass under our feet.
Ah, the first cherries of the season!
