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There’s no chaste way to eat a ripe plum, dark as a bruise and wet as a messy kiss. And as with so many love affairs, this fruit’s season is sweet but fleeting.
That’s why, when the crates of dusky, egg-shaped Italian plums appear at my local market and my father plucks the last Santa Rosas from his backyard trees, I hoard them greedily. A few get eaten out of hand or swirled into cake batters, but the lion’s share end up in the…