Here’s a little something about grapes, written from the perspective of a seasoned elder:

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You know, I’ve been thinking about grapes lately — the way you do when you’ve lived long enough to appreciate the small things. My mother used to keep a bowl of Concords on the kitchen table every September, and the smell of them would fill the whole house like a kind of purple perfume. There was nothing fancy about it. She’d just rinse them under the tap and set them out, and we children would pick at them all afternoon until our fingers were stained and our bellies were full. I don’t think I understood then what a gift that was.

People today are very caught up in the variety of grapes, and I suppose I understand it — Muscat this, Flame Seedless that. The grocery stores now carry more kinds than I can keep track of, and half of them don’t have seeds, which strikes me as a little sad, if I’m being honest. Seeds meant something. They meant the grape was a whole living thing, not just a snack someone had tidied up for you. But I try not to be too particular about it. Progress is progress, and at least people are still eating fruit.

I’ve made grape jam, grape jelly, grape juice, and one very ambitious attempt at wine that I’d rather not discuss in polite company. The jam, though — that I could do in my sleep. Low and slow on the stove, with just enough sugar, and the patience to let it set on its own time. That’s the secret with grapes, I think. You cannot rush them. They take the whole summer to get where they’re going, soaking up sun on the vine, and they are not in any hurry. There is a lesson in that, if you care to look for it.

My late husband Howard used to say that a good grape was better than candy, and I always agreed with him, though I would never have given up my butterscotch entirely. He’d eat them by the handful watching the evening news, one after another, without a word, perfectly content. I think of him whenever I buy a bunch now. I pick the firmest ones, the ones that are almost tight to the touch, because a soft grape is a grape that has already made its peace with the world and isn’t long for it. You want one that still has some fight left.

I realize I have now spent a considerable amount of time talking about grapes, and I won’t apologize for it. At my age, you talk about what you like, and you like what you’ve earned the right to like. And I have been fond of grapes for the better part of eight decades, which I believe qualifies me to speak on the matter.