Friday, December 30, 2011
There were gooseberries in the garden I grew up in, in Bloemfontein. A big bush, hung with little lanterns. There are always gooseberries in plastic clamshells at Woolworths, in Cape Town.
My mother has always loved them. I have not. Tart. Puckery.
Then I discovered two leggy gooseberry bushes growing in pots next to the swimming pool here at No. 9, and I could not resist picking a handful of white papery husks, indicators of the ripe fruit. I ate one. It was big and plump and deep orange. And sweet. Not even a hint of acidity. Big surprise.
So now I want my own gooseberry bush. To join the miscellany of edible plants amongst the satellite dishes on the Brooklyn rooftop. Because I have seen the light.