Cherry tree

One of my dearest childhood memories is sitting in a cherry tree, eating cherries, and talking to my grandmother sitting below. I could eat them nonstop. Sour and sweet plump cherries full of summer sun and precious moments with grandma. That was every summer until she passed away. With that, I ended my love for sitting in the cherry tree, but not my love for cherries. I picked them from the tallest trees in my other grandmother's garden, then in Armand's parents' garden, and other gardens (allowed). We ate them, I made jam, and baked them in cakes, but I never in my life enjoyed them as much as here in France, and that is not because this is my new home. It's because there's something about the cherries and their varieties here. From the beginning of the season, they are crisp, juicy, sweet, and also less sweet, depending on the variety. They are tempting and succulent. Even when you think you have had enough, you want more. 

It's been weeks since we enjoyed them and all the endless varieties available. It's been weeks since I promised myself to take pictures of each variety, trying to figure out the one I prefer, but I never managed to do that. It's been weeks since I told myself I must stop eating so many and, again, no luck. From different regions, they have names like Filfer, Fercouce, Celeste, Florie, Bigalise, Earlise, and others – to make us happy and addicted. That's a truth to live with and not a bad one.