I met a man the other day who grows fruit. So cleverly has he planned his orchard, that he has something to harvest every month of the year. Early plums, midseason and late. Apples, starting with Gravenstiens in January, ending with Fuji in June. Guavas in May, avocados when there is nothing else at all.
I have never thought of planting with such foresight. My plantings have been a response to juiciness, to crunch, delectibility; luscious mouthwatering memories of warm summer fruits, gathered in sunshine. To the idea of plenty. To a vision of abundance, gathered, preserved and stored like gems, to be brought out when the winter sun is brief and the wind is cold. Eaten by a fire, with a dressing of smug.