A couple of years ago I was made caretaker of a quite big garden. I am not too talented a gardener. G*d knows I am well known in plant circles that I able to kill the strongest roses juts by walking by. The trees and hedges in the garden however are not too impressed by not existing talent. From April on the garden is in full bloom. Read On you might say, what’s the problem. Isn’t it fantastic to be surrounded by apples trees, quince trees, to greet the strawberries hello and wave the blackberries good-bye? Before I took over the task of becoming a caretaker for a garden I would have easily agreed. But since the first yearI face a problem you can see above. There are never just a handful of cherries, a kilo of apples, a bowl of raspberries or three quinces. There is loads of everything. Summer after summer I spend hours harvesting. I climb on the old wooden ladder and pick cherries, reach for apples, get ripped to pieces in raspberry and blackberry bushes and the strawberries just laugh at me when I think I got them all. The quinces are the worst. There are millions of them and the pears are catching up quickly. So I spend more hours to make strawberry tarts and strawberry jam, I produce bottles of raspberry syrup and make more blackberry conserve. I cook apples and pears for compote and how often I googled ‚quinces-new ideas‘ I can’t tell. I send packages of jams and marmalades to my sister. I beg friends to come over to pick fruits for themselves: they are all very happy with grabbing just a bowl full or leave with two quinces in their hands. The scent they say and I smile bitterly. The children visiting me are not too impressed by raspberry syrup or strawberry filled pancakes. They want Coke or ice-cream and I sigh deeply. F. the former companion of happy days asks for raspberry preserve with rhum and despises quince preserve without vanilla from Madagascar. F. I say that’s laying it in bit thick, isn’t it. But F. is not too impressed. I still fight a solemn fight against preserves I made in 2014. It is spring the trees are blossoming, strawberries bathe in the sunshine, the raspberry bushes are thick as Hulk’s arm. The garden laughs at my desperate attempts and I have no idea how to handle another year of fruits and fruits and more fruits.