As we poured and shared our own cherry juice, my brother-in-law was describing to Basia how lush the property is in summer, with all sorts of fruits and vegetables growing. His daughter especially loves plucking whole bunches of rose-colored grapes from the vines, which she then devours.
One of my favorite memories of her brother, who is among the most finicky eaters I've ever met, is from when he was barely 5 years old. All of us were sitting on the edge of the raised beds, my niece and nephew contentedly munched peas as quickly as Kevin could snap the pods off the vines and shell them.
In that moment, the peas weren't food -- the well-spring of titanic parental power struggles -- they were a fun way to bond with Uncle Kevin. It was beautiful. Timeless. Life.
But that was years after the seeds of this projected were first planted -- with a potted tree we impulsively purchased while browsing for flowers at a basic nursery/garden mart. We proudly drove home with a cherry tree labeled "Bing," eager to share the nurturing experience with our own kids, who weren't yet teenagers at the time.
We didn't know a thing about fruit trees. Just stuck it in the ground and waited for it to mature.
Three years later, after it finally bore fruit, we were quite surprised to harvest small, rather tart cherries instead of large, heart-shaped, sweet dark purple ones.
"We didn't," I replied to Basia. "We bought a Bing."