Prunes

I am eating very delicious pickles that I have stolen from Andrew’s fridge and politely portioned into a pint deli (don’t worry I’ll replace the jar). Moments ago the taste of poached prunes that I make about twice a week at Penny came to the tip of my tongue and I knew I had to write about it if only in that brief sentence.

The other day I had the pleasure of speaking to Zahra Tangorra - an icon - about her writing practices, and one piece of advice she shared was: to write throughout the day, any idea that comes to mind, without being too “precious” at first with wording. Merely just expressing. So here that practice is - in a brief entry.

The prunes are so lovely that even through the dill and vinegar burning my tongue in this present moment their perfume seeps through my mind. I made the prunes today and there are four simple ingredients: honey, boxed red wine, a secret ingredient (not really I don’t think, but I’m with holding), and prunes.

I will NEVER disparage a prune. I love prunes so much that when they’re not in my fridge I can feel the lack of their presence like an eerie emptiness right next to fridge baking soda. Now of course I use prunes for their practical purposes - don’t judge - but it’s quite interesting how something so mundane, soaked in wine and honey, can become so elevated.

I had poached prunes over ice cream in Paris four years ago and from then on I have been in love with the concept of the elevated prune. Perhaps I am an uncultured American, but I say bring back the prune! Btw, why did Gabrielle Hamilton name her restaurant Prune?

Shoutout to California Prunes, one of the sponsors of Cherry Bombe Jubilee this spring, and shoutout to my sous chef Gabby, who graciously brought me a plum today, because the fruit is one of her current obsessions, to which I promptly refused because I’m allergic to stone fruit (in their raw form).

Oh the irony! At least I wrote something.

Peace and Love,

B.

Stolen Pickles. Andrew’s appartment. June 21, 2026.