Our front yard boasts a decent-sized plum tree. It does annually what plum trees are supposed to do: produces plums.
In quantity. They ripen and fall in squishy blobs all over our front yard and alley.
Ironically, one of my least favorite fruits is the plum. But I'm blessed with a tree full of them. I considered calling Backyard Harvest, and next year I'll probably do so, but this year I waited too late. At last a neighbor from church agreed to take them off my hands, but feeling guilty for letting so many go to waste, I did pick one bucketful myself.
I really only picked for about two minutes and only the ripe ones I could reach. Still I ended up with two big potfuls of plums which I set boiling on my stove, filling the house with sweet, plummy smell. It smelled like I was a plum-loving, fruit-picking, home-canning housewife who puts up 458 quarts of fruit every year.
But that's not me.
I made eight cups of plum jelly and put them in the freezer. Then I thanked the Lord Above for sending my neighbor who likes plums.