Locavores

For the past few weeks, people entering the Cranky front door have stepped inside and looked quizzically at the bottoms of their shoes. It's not dog poo, but something equally disgusting: a plum that's seen better days. Squirrels in the Cranky neighborhood have been working overtime for a month to frantically gnaw on the fruits of the Crankies' plum tree and then hurl the remainders down to the sidewalk. Where the ants and flies take over. House Beautiful, this is not.

Back in March, this tree gave little evidence that it would create oozing, buzzing Superfund-type sludge. But that blossoming harbinger of spring has been transformed into a source of fruity, fermenting plum smoosh.

Meta Cranky imagines a perfect world in which tender plum trees would sport warning labels that say: "Hey dummy! Don't plant this by your sidewalk! Only a complete moron would make the mailman walk through plum goo for month and still expect to get the New Yorker on time." Call it a failure of imagination, but she never envisioned that the wee sapling in the back of her car could block the front of the house and create what Herr Cranky now calls "a jungle vibe."

Since this tree is all about fecundity, a fraction of its seed-bearing fruits remain in the tree, where Cranky #2 and her BFF tirelessly arrange ladders to remove as many as possible. Cranky #1 led a party of teenagers into the tree, where even more were secured. Since a truly ripe, mouth-ready plum would either have been 1)gummed by a squirrel or 2)pulverized upon impact with sidewalk, the Crankies are picking their plums al dente, letting them ripen, and then turning them into jam.

Meta Cranky's compulsion to preserve fruity bits in teeny jars is a product of her Red State upbringing. The thickets of ripening sand plums near Cranky Girls' Farm move the locals to stand in sandburrs, among throngs of snakes and clouds of mosquitoes, to fill feed sacks with very small, very local, produce. The locals take these sacks to granny ladies who then make a tart, red jam. People in Philadelphia eat scrapple, which MC can tell you is big mistake. Those crazy Canadians eat cheese curds and gravy, which might be OK if you're trying to pack on blubber like a penguin. In the whole universe of local cuisine, you could do a lot worse than plum jam. It's rather a point of local pride: since this product is not available in stores or on QVC, you're not going to get any unless you make it yourself. Or someone likes you.

The Crankies' very urban plum tree stands in for a thicket of Red State sand plums. What we lack in snakes and sandburrs, we make up for with plummy spots on our living room carpet. Cranky #1 declares that the act of jamming satisfies her itch to hoard food. Apparently, children exposed to the Little House books at an early age will expect to hang onions from their rafters and cram their cellars full of potatoes. If they have neither rafters or cellars, they'll settle for putting plums into mismatched mayo jars.

In 1957, the Cimarron River flooded at Hazel's house, marooning a few dozen aunts, uncles, and babies for several days. Meta Cranky asked Friendly Cousin about this years afterward, wondering what all those people found to eat. Food wasn't a problem, Friendly Cousin reported. Before the cellar filled with water, they brought up all Hazel's canning jars, full of local produce.
--MC