As I ate my five hundredth greengage of the day I began to ponder on aw and awe and concluded how awful, meaningless and fucking annoying is the current use of awesome as a superlative particularly if Oh My God is used to preface such a declaration. Oh my god these greengages are awesome. See….it is fucking annoying. Anyway, because greengages are so awfully addictive and toothsome they find it very hard to get from the orchard, in my case shopping basket, to the kitchen and, harsh as it may sound, they have only themselves to blame. Of all the varied members of the family plum, save for the golden mirabelle, the greengage never fails to please and it is this impossibly seductive quality that impedes their progress from bough to kitchen to oven and in my opinion that’s how it should be….I have a feeling that god created the greengage just after he had successfully completed what has remained as the finest piece of spare rib cookery which was to be known by posterity as Brigitte Bardot….certainly a more attractive view of the garden of Eden and one could not find a more apposite symbol of irresistible sinfulness than the greengage…together with his previous creation. Having declared my love of the raw fruit it may come as some surprise that I indeed managed to preserve a few of my treasures which I put, uncooked and without any adornment or creme patissiere, into a sweet shortcrust pastry case and cooked for 30 minutes in a hot oven……and there it is in the picture below. In my heart of hearts I can’t really see why I did it….it does taste good, particularly when it’s cold and is served with thick, yellow creme fraiche….but should I have to hand a bowl of ripe fruit fresh from the bough there is little question that I would say to the snake…”I’ll have one of those, in fact as many as you can get hold of and, by the way, do you by any chance know a girl called Brigitte who I believe lives around here”.