Bowl of cherries

I loved cherries as a child growing up in the suburbs of Montreal. We ate them on the back deck, seeing who could spit the pits farthest into the flowerbeds, hoping a cherry tree would magically grow. The firm skin and juicy insides with that subtle cherry flavor were made to be popped raw and whole into the mouth.

Dexterity was required to chew the cherries without cracking teeth on the pits and to suck them clean before spitting -- no, really blowing -- them out across the lawn. Cherries and watermelon are the original foods as entertainment -- no chemicals required.

I couldn't figure out why the candies labelled cherry-flavored tasted nothing like cherries. Even cherry pastries and cherry pie left me cold.

But fresh cherries straight up - I loved them.

Part of the fun was probably their short season - 2-3 weeks, then no more until next year. Isn't it true that we have more appreciation when the anticipation lasts longer than the reward?

As a young adult with multiple-chemical sensitivities, I avoided cherries because of their high level of pesticides. Even now, cherries are among the most heavily-sprayed fruits and should be avoided.

Every June I walk through the farmers market looking at the piles of pesticided cherries and thinking wistfully of the cherries of my childhood. Sure I'm strong enough now that I could eat a few toxic cherries with little ill effect, but how could I explain to the ladybugs and bees that were killed by the sprays that I gave money to the farmer who poisoned them?

So my memories of cherries have been just that, memories, until last week when I found a stall at the Hollywood Farmers Market selling organic cherries. Delicious deep black and ruby red organic cherries. I bought a pound, took them home, and ate them outside (although I did not spit the seeds into the flowerbeds). They were just as good as I remembered, and I sent thanks to the farmer who had the foresight to stop spraying the trees and instead let nature do its work.