Not the plate, although that does evoke a vague memory of a brocante somewhere, or the fruit - not often a memory provoker, or perhaps if you'd had a romantic episode under an apricot tree or something it might be. The knife is the souvenir here.
Ezra and I were down on the French south coast in our favourite place of that time - Cerbère. Having to drive back home, we'd decided to take the long rather vertiginous route up above Banyuls sur Mer and picnic somewhere. Food bought in a Carrefour on the way up there, I realised we hadn't brought a knife with us, so bought a pack of four cheap, wood handled knives - the sort a hunter might use to carve up a saucisson while perched on a rock under a cork tree, dog panting in the shade, cicadas rasping . . .
No hunting dog, possibly the old Italian greyhound - can't recall which dog stage we were at at that point in time - but we had sought out the shade of a cork tree and armed with our new knives had proceeded to carve up fruit and cheese rather than charcuterie. It was probably the most perfect picnic, nothing exotic, no wild salmon or champagne - basic fare but heightened in taste because of everything experienced in that moment: a glittering distant sea, before which lay the orange and white hues of Banyuls; warm herby hillside breezes, stripes of vines, and silence apart from swallows and grasshoppers.
Three of the knives disappeared during various moves or over enthusiastic washing up sessions, but one remains in our new houses's cutlery drawer. I'll make sure it stays there, being used to cut up the occasional apple or pear; a little woody reminder of a favourite time and place.
