Telling my story, as incomplete as it is, is coming to an end.
About 40 years ago on Father’s Day, I took my daughters and their mother to nearby farms to pick strawberries and cherries to make jam as I was eager to share with my family the experiences I enjoyed when I was a little boy. I was proud to show my heritage of French country life in the summer time.
This year, as I was recalling helping my mom to make large quantities of jam with Bernard, my brother, I was missing the sweet smell of cooking plums on the open fire. I had to do it again. I drove 100 miles to Winters, near Davis where I went to college when I first arrived in California. I found an orchard with the fruit I was looking for. We call them “Prune d’Ente” in France, the variety used to be dried into prunes. I came home with about 50 pounds of plums and for the next three days I made the jam. The aroma of cooking plums was as great as I remember, almost like I am still in Augey with Bernard, a complete circle in a sense.
Thank you, Caroline, Valerie, Melanie, Nicholas, and my grandchildren for helping me write my story.
This is my gift. I love you all.
