Dear Regular (and those not so) Newsletter Readers,
I hope this week’s edition of our newsletter finds you all well.
As promised, I am offering up a poem this week, well at least an attempt at one, it’s been a while and I expect my poetry is still as disjointed and horrid as it ever was, but here’s my attempt for this week. It’s a poem of sorts about my foray into Japanese plum wine (Umeshu) making; actually, the only part I play in the making of the wine is going up a ladder and picking the plums off the tree, it’s my wife that sterilizes the jars, washes the fruit and adds the brandy and sugar. The jars are then put away into a cupboard and forgotten about for a year or more and after which time we sample with great anticipation the fruits of our collective labour.
I hope you enjoy the poem and until next week, keep safe and have a pleasant weekend.
Plum pulling time
It’s quickly approaching plum pulling time.
1 more week to go before I relieve my plum tree of all its fruit.
The protective net covering the tree deters birds from having their fill.
It usually works until the plums are ready to pull.
The plums are hard, green and of a certain size.
They are not used to make jam nor do they end up in pies.
They will be washed and put into jars with brandy and rock sugar to make plum wine.
These jars of sweet alcoholic libation are then put away to refine.
Time is required to make plum wine, it takes a year or more before we can taste the fruits of our labour.
Plum wine is best drunk over ice or mixed with soda water.
Nothing goes to waste, you can eat the plums as they have an exquisite taste.
Plums are good for health so I always pop a plum into a glass I pour for myself.
Having a plum in the glass from the start of the drink to the end adds texture and flavour.
It allows you to better savour the taste as the last drop smoothly glides down your throat.
With all the wine now drunk take your forefinger and thumb and take out that plum.
And then like little Jack Horner (no need to sit in the corner) you can say what a good boy am I
A poem by Stephen Austwick.