Strange Fruit

Bobby was a rather curious looking woman I really couldn’t quite make out what it was… but there was something about her that made me question her very being…although it didn’t really matter she showed me nothing but kindness, caring and attention and that was all I needed at that age!

I don’t suppose It was easy being five… Inquisitive… questioning and “free range” … that’s what you call it when things roam without worry or care…?

Madame Blanc’s garden kitchen, on the other hand, was very functional, simple and yet well organised.. it was sculpted from marble and old wood, it was constantly dusty.. but full of the wonderful things that would lead you from one sensory teasing to another… textures, flavours and smells all interwoven … the wood-burning oven gave a fine aroma of smokey bread making ..the mausoleum-like kitchen table was flooded with semolina flour and hand-rolled noodles ..waiting for the pot to reach its rolling boil with my adopted Grandmothers freshly torn basil standing by and all waiting patiently for the Lampuki fish to go on to the grill.

Equally the fruits that surrounded Madame Blanc’s garden kitchen intrigued me .. Prickly pears… painful but delicious… I was always stopped from robbing my granny’s cactus .. not because she wanted to save the fruit.. she didn’t really like it … but it was a real pain to get the thorns out of my hands as often as I got impaled upon them, so I suppose it was just easier to stop me from going near it. The garden had myriad fruit trees and my fascination with them waxed and waned with the seasons. Almost like a puppy losing its interest in its owner once dinner was served!

At the bottom of the sandy garden was by far the biggest tree, a peach, very mature probably as revered for the shade it offered as for the fruit it bore!  Bobby knew I was fascinated by it however she also knew I was far too small to clamber its trunk.. so she gently lifted me skywards and with the outstretched fingers of my very small hand I fumbled and plucked what must have surely been the largest softest and sweetest piece of fruit ever harvested. It was still very warm from the afternoon sun and as I launched into it… my fingers moved the skin and allowed the warm juices to run down my young forearm …..in my hasty enthusiasm … or maybe it was just plain greed I ran the tip of my tongue to rescue the liberated juice and quickly recaptured them.. it was heavenly ..sweet. scented… divine…rich and tingly …. All at once…

Bobby laughed out load saying in her Maltese French patois that I looked like a street urchin that hadn’t eaten for a week to which I quickly replied… in hindsight, my response should have been ”That may be… but I had just tasted something that was surely fit for a king! “ but as a five-year-old street urchin, I simply smiled.

Madame Blanc hurried us both along and told Bobby to stop messing around she needed the peaches for dessert. It quickly dawned on me…  If there was one thing Madam Blanc was well-known for…. it was for her “Roasted Peaches” Bobby used to say that “they could smell them back home in Marseille” and I didn’t doubt her at all, she served them with an almond crumb crust and a vanilla cream. The sweet and nutty aroma hung around long after the peaches were gone and the dusky Mediterranean sunset seemed to make it linger.

We would all scramble for the juices left in the bottom of the serving dish….. I’m sure looking back it was rigged in my favour and the kindness of this small French exiled community shone to the fore, as I always seemed to win and would walk home down the narrow Maltese streets with sweet sugary nectar sticking my lips together.