Why It's Called Plum Perfect

I’ve been working at home all afternoon, and have just come up for air.  I knew I was in need of something, and saw a lone purple plum sitting in the fruit bowl.  I devoured it with utter abandon, standing over the sink with plum juice running down my wrist and chin.  I feel like the narrator of the famous William Carlos Williams poem—

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I had intended the plum for a salad, but that would have been gilding the lily.  Plum tart (especially “rustic”)?  Plum brandy?  Unnecessary, but calling me seductively in the voice of a different sort of poet.

image:  Plums, The Dressing Room