Confessions of a fruit thief

Originally published in The Globe and Mail

In late summer, my desires for light mischief and personal indulgence surpass the social codes I otherwise live by. This is my way of saying: I pick fruit that is not mine. I’m a person who goes for long, frequent walks, and when I walk, I look, and when I look, I am overcome by what is there to find. To quote the author Charlotte Mendelson: “There’s no English word for the frenzied state into which I’m thrown when I see a tree thick with crab apples, or greengages, or pears. Are you seriously expecting me, a greedy person, to ignore [them]?”

I’ll launch straight into my defense. I have an honour code: I don’t walk up people’s driveways or tread on their lawns; I respect tended gardens and community plots; I won’t take the only, anything befitting of the adjective “prized,” or more than can fit into one hand; I respect the purpose of a fence – I’m not a raccoon or a cat burglar. But when that fence fails to fully contain branches and vines within it, when those plants reach through and over and out towards me, who am I to ignore them? We know not to enjoy the fruits of others’ labour, but what about the fruits of their neglect?

To me, rogue raspberry canes spilling out into back lanes, cherry and fig trees whose fruits have splattered all over the sidewalk, and the occasional Italian plum flourishing beside an alley-facing garage, all inhabit a proprietary grey-zone. In the short, luminous weeks of late summer, I take clandestine advantage of them.

I attribute my passion for pilfering fruit to a few things. For one, I got a thrill from breaking minor, meaningless rules as a child and I miss those opportunities as an adult. If grabbing a fig and concealing it in my palm as I speed-walk away from a stranger’s house is what does it for me, well, things could be worse. Then, there’s the fact that unusual and wonderfully Edenic varieties of things sometimes grow in forgotten places. When I find those glowing, hot pink sour cherries you can’t seem to buy anywhere in Vancouver, except maybe frozen at the Russian grocer, or those small purple ones that taste like Black Forest cake, I think that maybe life actually is abundant and magical. When I find fresh, soft, sun-warmed figs – so unlike the hardscrabble, anemic ones from the grocery store or those you find, if you’re lucky, bruised and oozing at the farmer’s market – it feels like luxury.

This story originally appeared in The Globe and Mail, September 2020. To read the full story, click here.