Photo by Saif Ali
It was the time of year when the Balcony Gardener used to make applesauce in California.
An apple tree would never fit on her Paris balcony, of course, but the ritual lingered. So she went to the market, filled her bag with sharp green apples, and returned home to peel, slice, and simmer until six medium jars of sauce stood cooling on the counter. She was well pleased with her work.
That evening, she sat in her chair, Teddy curled at her feet, sipping a pear-and-honey infusion. Across the wall, Madame DuPont’s apartment rang with clinks and clatters—glass against glass, the thud of boxes being shifted. Deliveries had been arriving all week, the kind that required a man with a dolly and a quick exit.
The Balcony Gardener made note but said nothing.
By mid-week, a smell of scorched sugar began drifting through the hall. At first it was faint, but soon it thickened, dark and sticky, as if someone had set a candy factory on low tide. Even Teddy wrinkled his nose and retreated under the chair.
Stepping onto her balcony, the Balcony Gardener leaned and saw Madame DuPont’s window thrown wide. Smoke curled lazily outward, the sort that clung to curtains and left neighbors muttering in stairwells. She fetched a small mirror tied to a mop handle—a trick she preferred not to explain—and held it out over the railing. The reflection showed the culprit: a saucepan on the stove, belching smoke like an old locomotive.
No fire, but plenty of ruin.
She crossed the landing with Madame DuPont’s spare key (exchanged months ago, because in Paris, one must never lock oneself out) and pushed open the smoky door. Teddy barked encouragement from behind.
‘Good heavens,’ she muttered. ‘Madame DuPont was always given to excess.'”
Inside, the flat revealed itself as a labyrinth of jars. Every surface groaned under preserves: corn, tomatoes, cherries, beets, peas, apricots. It was less an apartment than a glass menagerie of dinner sides. She found the pot on the stove, lid askew, contents reduced to a blackened, bubbling swamp. The figs had not burned—they had committed olfactory sabotage.
She opened the window wider, coughing. Teddy sneezed through the doorway as if filing a formal complaint.
Only then did she take in the scale of it: peas lined up like soldiers on the mantel, apricot conserve in precarious stacks by the window, beetroot glowering red from the bookshelf.
“Good heavens,” she muttered. “Madame DuPont was always given to excess.”
At that moment Madame DuPont arrived, faint alarm on her face. She took in the scene, jars glinting like stained glass, and gave a sheepish shrug. “I only wanted to be certain I had enough. Prices—well, they keep rising.”
Nothing needed saying, though Madame DuPont sighed that perhaps she ought to quit canning for this year, while she was ahead.”
They were lucky the concierge was absent; otherwise, the tale of the smoky figs would have traveled the building before sunset. Instead, the Balcony Gardener suggested tea. Madame DuPont produced a jar of apricot conserve—her friend’s favorite—and set down a bag of warm croissants she had bought on her way home.
They ate in silence, the air slowly clearing, Teddy stationed like a watchdog beneath the table.
Nothing needed saying, though Madame DuPont sighed that perhaps she ought to quit canning for this year, while she was ahead.
The Balcony Gardener tilted her face to the ceiling in a silent appeal to heaven. Outside, the September air was cooler, carrying the rustle of leaves from the square below. Soon the markets would fill with chestnuts, her balcony plants would thin, and Paris would slip into autumn.
Such were the days: jars upon jars, smoky figs, croissants with tea, and Teddy snoring at her feet.
Editor’s Note: Read more of the Parisienne horticulturist’s adventures here and in The Balcony Gardener Volume 1.