I returned from our trip to Massachusetts to find a nice fat envelope in our mailbox -- not from the college of my choice, but from our friend Bob, and packed with delicious pruneaux d’Agen. He saw them at the incomparable Fairway Market and thought of me, probably because I sang him my infamous prune song when he was last here.

I sent him the following thank-you e-mail:

Dear Bob,

Just got back in town and discovered the most wonderful prunes had arrived. What a delightful way to stay regular! They are truly the Cadillac of prunes, without the poor gas mileage and leather seats.

Thank you so much for the thoughtful and yummy gift.

Love and best wishes,
Andrea

When I was about 20, I learned the hard way why you should limit how many prunes you eat in one sitting. Besides being a less-than-fun experience, it was also disappointing to realize that I couldn't just eat yummy yummy prunes whenever I wanted. Prunes had to be an occasional treat, as I expressed in the following little song (to the tune of "I Want Your Sex" by George Michael):


I thought with sadness that I'd only be able to eat prunes to my heart's content in my old age, with the exception of that annual prune festival we Jews call "Passover."

But in my mere 30s, I've discovered that my prune tolerance has become quite high, and I can eat them as I please. Yay! I've effortlessly lost at least five pounds since I started popping prunes, without any exciting bathroom consequences. So consider this a proclamation of my prune allegiance: long may they prosper!

Be warned... if you try to find them in the grocery stores, they are sometimes labeled "dried plums," which apparently sounds less geriatric than "prunes."