Many years ago, before my frontal lobe had had a chance to peak, I decided to enter the world of crime — theft to be precise. I was seven and a half, and we were spending the summer at Phuphee’s. It was hot and most of our time was spent running around the orchards, often trying to seek the shade of an obliging tree.

On one such hot day, the criminal mastermind in me was awakened, probably by the confusion caused by dehydration and listlessness. I had been walking around trying to find my cousins in a game of hide and seek, when I saw a kraenjul (wicker basket) resting by the window in the pantry. Inside was a bunch of juicy crimson red plums. I looked around and could see no one. So I reached out my sweaty little hand and grabbed one and devoured it, the blood red juices running down my chin and frock.

When I had consumed one, I grabbed another and then another, dropping the pits to the floor. Before I could gather my senses, I had consumed half a dozen. I would have eaten more, but my stomach rebelled. I heard a sound coming from the kitchen, and in a tizzy I picked up the pits in my hand and buried them in the ground. I believed it was the perfect crime.

I walked to the front of the house, where........

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