Guest post: Alex Jacobsohn
The seasons casually proffer, and it’s up to us whether we revel or revile what we receive. Offering gifts is far more difficult to calculate.
When we were young, our parents would give us sober, hopeful gifts. Books, usually. No plastic toys, certainly no guns (even water guns!), and no frivolity. When we visited a city, we would visit cathedrals and museums. I was 30 by the time we met up in Paris, and they took me on the Bateaux Mouches tourist boats. I was greatly amused, because by that time I could have booked that myself (though as it happened, never did) and would have wished that gift from them at the age of 15 and under, not so much 30.
I was in the middle of an MBA at 30, slightly older than most of the other students, but I had toys that were the envy of my 20-something colleagues. A tubular missile to throw over the building (in good weather) and a fabric frisbee to fling down the residence halls were both birthday gifts of my parents, and frequently used.
Fast forward a few years and I am married and living in the UK and it is time for me to follow the parental gift-giving tradition. Time also for the next generation to summer in Mouzieys. British school holidays being the end of May, and my birthday as well, we would often be invited to eat at Nadine and Yvon’s house, outside. At the edge of their lawn was a hedge of Guigne bushes. It is a truth universally acknowledged that the parents of an ADHD child are glad of any distraction. Zack at the age of 8 or so, spied the little berries and was told he could eat them. Eat them he did, and loved them.
Guignes are mostly a sour flavour, with a delicate cherry aroma. They are not the full and rounded flavours of the darker cherries. They do not keep, so if you want to make a coulis or jam with them, it is best to be cooking them within half an hour of picking them. They have the wonderful characteristic, however, of leaving the pit behind on the tree. Look, Dad, no spitting!
After about 15 minutes of Zack gorging himself, I was warned that especially for the delicate tummy of a child, it might be best to limit the intake. But I think I traded having just a bit more peace for another glass of wine, against what might have been explosive consequences later. And, dear reader, I won.
Zack stuffed his face on these Guignes, year after year, with never a consequence. A few years ago, I read to my surprise that the Guigne were also native to the UK (sometimes spelled as Gean), and started looking for one to buy. But it was an odd plant, apparently, and I couldn’t find one. As mentioned previously, it is not the most easily handled fruit, nor the sweetest, but perfection for those who love it.
Just before leaving Mouzieys one year, I was given two saplings. I planted one each side of the garden in England, and after a few years, one died and one thrived. This year we have the bonanza of crops. Zack has just turned 26 and though appreciative, looks at me with amusement. That’s what he would have wanted in our garden when he was 13, not 26.
We made a coulis, which was perfection with cheesecake, and we wander out to the tree (it looks like if I don’t cut it back will become a tree rather than a bush) for a few more, but nothing like the quantities of the wild gorgings of a child bored of dinner table conversation. I think I’m ready for the grandchildren.
