The first time I learned that fruit is seasonal was in the January sun of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.
Before then, I was certain that the avocados that fell to the ground from the thick branches of the ancient tree in our front yard turned purple-black on their own time. They lay in the grass, waiting to become tacos or sandwiches, and I remember needing to look where I stepped when I walked beneath the green canopy.
Bananas, as well, weren’t seasonal, nor were tomatoes, as far as I knew. As I sat in my mom’s car, stuck in traffic on our way toward Kolfe, the same fruits and vegetables winked at me from beneath vendors’ bright, dusty awnings. Bell peppers, onions, k’arria, oranges, and mangoes, piled high in sturdy pyramids on tarps or wooden trays. I never noticed a difference in what was there and what wasn’t.
But in January, whatever the year was, I looked out the window and the pyramids had turned purple. They looked like round gems, whitened with the coating of dust that is inevitable in a life alongside a five-lane road, but gems, nonetheless. Plums.
That month, I tried a plum for the first time. I have a distinct memory—that I’m not sure is actually real—of a Kiwi girl I wanted to be whipping out a large bag of them while she sat in the back of the taxi that was bringing all of us home after school. We passed the bag up, row-to-row, sharing them. I don’t know who I was sitting with, but I remember that I was in the window seat, smushed in with my backpack that wouldn’t squeeze onto the floor, and shoulder to shoulder with whichever friend was next to me.
I remember not liking it—the plum—very much.
Plums are unconvincing in their sweetness. It’s as if they started off sweet and then decided, halfway through ripening, that they’d rather not be. They refuse to be tart, except near their centers, are not acidic, and seem nearly creamy in taste to my tongue. They hold the heat of the sun well, because they are so dark in color, and that longstanding memory always surprised me. Plums are fruits that remember where they’ve been.
However old I was when I tried them for the first time, I had no box to put them in. They are not like cherries, mangoes, or other fruits with pits, and they are not like strawberries or any other small, round fruits. For the rest of January, I ate them more out of curiosity than fancy.
And when the month rolled over, becoming February—though in Ethiopia, there’s not much of a weather change, simply still pleasant and sunny—the purple, dusty pyramids vanished. Plum season in Addis is the month of January, and just that. Then it’s over.
I learned to look forward to that short season, though plums were still unconvincing to me. It felt like a secret superpower to know that trees I had never seen were ripening, preparing for the month they’d take over the busy streets of an otherwise impenetrable city. It was insider information, and it was precious to me.
I have not been to Ethiopia in nearly seven years now, and I have learned, since then, about the timings of so many other fruits and vegetables. Blueberries in July, oranges in the winter, butternut squash in the fall. I look forward to peach and apple picking, and the roadside corn stands farmers place in front of their houses in August.
Today, I stopped at a farm off a main road near Jenison, where I’ve been learning to make my home for the past month. I walked among the piles of greens and reds, cleanly placed in neat rows or recyclable baskets. I did not have to translate in my head to eavesdrop on the people across the row from me, and they did not ask to touch my hair or practice English. And among the neat rows of cardboard fruit boxes were small, dusty purple gems. $5.00 a box.
I bit into one when I got home, smiling like a child. It was still warm from the day, its purple skin glowing against my hand and melting against my teeth.
It is my favorite thing about them.
