The ones I got on the Marché Saint-Antoine the other day were this year's last. There will be no more Prunes St. Jean this year. Soft and flavorful, they expand like summer days in our mouths. Ian looks doleful and waits sweetly while I pit them for a pie. We're waiting, hoping, fingers crossed for news on our grant application for the teaching kitchen. I toss Ian a pitted plum every now and then and he repeats each time "merci, maman". Wishing I had filmed him, I hear Loic running the bath. The baby trots back, mouth full of plum, to peel off his play clothes and arrange his boats. I head to the kitchen to dump these plums onto some quick finger-spread dough. Look, there are some currants. A little sugar. Fingers crossed, then licked.
*the word for plum in French is prune.
