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A childhood memory takes me back in time. Sitting on the step of an outdoor stairway, I have a set of dishes next to me, complete with cups and spoons. A doll leaning against the wall is looking at me, waiting for something. My mother arrives with a pot and fills two saucers. How little it takes to be happy! I taste it; I have to be careful because it is hot, so first I offer it to the doll, then I gulp it down: it is red, delicious, and has no stones. How can we forget the sweetness of that far-off cherry jam?