Henry James once said that his two favorite words were "summer day"--such a succinct a thought for someone not known for his brevity. A beautiful summer day seems such an unearned pleasure, a gift of which we are not worthy, something almost too good to be true--and yet, there we are, breathing in the scent of roses and tasting the sweet fruits. There are, of course, also the not-so-sweet fruits, like the black currant, a fruit I had never heard of until we traveled to England and found black currant preserves everywhere we went. Tart, tangy and rich in color, black currant preserves became a must-have for every "full English breakfast". When I came home and was unable to find this new delicacy anywhere, I ordered three black currant bushes from a nursery. They arrived, three little twigs with bare roots. My hopes fell, but I planted the little "bushes". They surprised me by branching out within weeks and forming compact shrubs not quite two feet high. The first year a handful of currants appeared. By the next year, the branches filled with the black fruit. The three bushes now produce enough for five or six jars of jam each year--enough to satisfy the Anglophile in me, and to remind me, even on hot, humid, terrible days that a summer day is a special pleasure, to be dreamed of in January, longed for in February and lusted after in March. Henry James may have been eating black currant preserves on a bleak midwinter day when he penned his famous quote. Just a guess.