I have whore's toe nails. Just painted them bright cherry red, which does not fail to surprise and amuse me every time I happen to glance down. I was inspired, I think, at least in part by the giant mound of Michigan tart cherries I brought home from the farmers market yesterday. They are sublime.
In St. Louis, where Ted Drewes frozen custard is legend, my very favorite concrete has been, for years, tart cherry. The perfect blend of sour and sweet, fruity and creamy. How, then, is it possible that I have reached this stage in my adult life without ever tasting the real thing?
Perhaps some less sensous people may object to their slightly gushy texture, preferring the reliable firmness of your darker cherry variety. But the minute you pop a tart cherry in your mouth and clamp down, the pit agreeably shoots out, generously volunteering to separate itself from the rest of the fruit so that you can easily discard it and enjoy the main feature. How's that for accommodating?
Plus, the glowy, almost translucent bright red is a fantastic thing to behold and the juice these gems produce won't irreversibly stain your clothing were one, say, prone to sloppiness during ingestion. And they're not all that tart, just pleasantly so.
Why, oh why, then are tart cherries so difficult to find, absent from grocery stores unless frozen or canned? Why would such a perfect fruit be relegated to pie-making status where its remarkable characteristics are hidden under piles of added sugar and forced to compete with the allure of a flaky crust?
It all seems so...cruel and unnecessary.
If it sounds like these are the ramblings of a woman in love, I plead guilty! I am! I'm in love with you, tart cherries!
And also my stomach kind of hurts a little, which probably happens when you consume an entire pint of any fruit, no?