It's asparagus time and yet I am wistful for persimmons. There's the mouth trying to summon the taste of Fuyus. Much like trying to remember a line of poetry you crafted while walking in the farmers market. The line is gone by the time you reach for those carrots.
SLIDES: Weston
ReplyDeleteShe thinks, as he is barbecueing in the sparsely gardened backyard which no one really uses except to hose off after the beach or watch a deer run back into the little wooden area, my dad loves meat. She has heard how he grew up in the Depression and feels proud that unlike his own father, he can afford prime cuts, and milk, and butter, and clothes and cars and toys and bicycles and cars. He hates it when we do not eat all our food at the table, and tells us how ;lucky we are that we have all that we have. She does not feel exactly lucky these days, but she eats all her food, and tries to imagine what it would be like to go to an empty refrigerator, an empty pantry, and empty table.