There was no sign of dessert. (I’m going back a bit now.) We looked anxiously at one another, wondering if our hosts had forgotten, or were about to bring out a plate of cheese. Suddenly our host stood up, slipped out into the garden and returned with a tree branch that he flopped, almost matter-of-factly on the dining table. Hidden among the leaves were plums, each one barely bigger than a blackbird’s egg, gold, freckled with rust and as sweet as honey. I cannot remember a more appealing pudding. I couldn’t bear to ask if the branch was a bit of unseasonal pruning or a spur of the moment thing. Whatever, it was a moment of genius.
The season for plums is short and precious, the out-of-season variety being almost inedible unless you cook them. The plum, like the fig, is a fruit on which to gorge. But unlike figs, they are relatively cheap, probably because the shops need to get them sold. Any that fail to ripen, as is occasionally the case, can be baked with a little honey or sugar, or brought to a sloppy jam on the hob, either with sugar or, as I did this week, pomegranate molasses, brown sugar and chilli flakes. A hot-sweet-tart accompaniment in which to dip a pork chop or a rib. (We also used it with thick slices of blue cheese, which was both dazzling and extraordinary.)
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