Summers under the tamarind tree

Memories of my childhood come flooding back when I conjure up an image of a lofty tamarind tree. This arbor stood regally in my grandmother’s garden and offered both sanctuary and solitude, and I spent so much of my youth under its branches and lounging on the cool earth above its deep roots.

The fruit it bore was enveloped in a crusty brown shell, yielding a rather ugly, pulpy flesh, which at first bite would send shivers down my spine. The tamarind certainly wasn’t the most attractive fruit in that garden, but its sour flavour was always the most inviting to me as a child, and despite endless warnings of side effects (ranging from a sore throat to the early blossoming of womanhood!) I’d still venture to pick another fruit, or even chew on the tree’s little bittersweet leaves. Then I’d curl up underneath its boughs and read my book knowing that the tamarind tree’s intoxicating tang would soon tempt me again.