You might think it would be utterly picturesque and delightfully romantic to be picking plums in an orchard across from our house in the twilight of an Italian countryside, laughing with my mother. You might, but you wouldn't have taken into account the slipperiness of ripe and overripe plums underneath the soles of birkenstocks or the fact that Italian orchards are inevitably dusty, not to mention the nostalgic smell of pesticide.
Oddly enough it occurred to me that all of the plums scattered across the orchard under the plum trees, a squashy path of them marking our footsteps thither, were irresponsibly creating a myriad of diarrhea cases merely by default.
Plum jam shall haunt me, plum pies, plum cakes, plum everything! Woe! Woe is me!