I’ll be back tomorrow with a post about our road trip eating, but today I just wanted to thank you for your stories in the comments on my last post. The winner of Aimèe’s book is Nancy, who shared the love story of her parents. If you haven’t taken a few minutes to read through those comments, do! They are truly extraordinary.
I’ll leave you with a photo of the farmers’ market in Miami, where things really grow! (Also, homemade donuts.) If you’re in the frozen world like I am, I think it’s nice to know there’s something growing, somewhere.
Today, a different kind of love story.
Last spring, we were on our way home from Montreal, and we had plans to stop at Aimée Wimbush-Bourque‘s house. She and I had never met in person before, but we’d corresponded over email a bit when my first book came out, and I’d sent her a note asking if she might want to meet.
From our very first meeting, Mrs. Meyers knew me for the sucker that I am. And she played me hard.
It was years ago now. I was at the grocery store, in the cleaning products aisle. I don’t go down there much–just really to buy sponges and Bon Ami, but the new labels caught my eye. The fonts! The design! I stopped. I picked up a bottle. I read the label.
If February is a grapefruit (pink and bursting through it’s dull rind),
and March is a banana because what else is there?
If April is a mango, hopeful, often rotten and disappointing but every so often so rich and bright, and May is just blossoms,
promises of fruit.
If June is a strawberry, soaked through and so grateful for the sun, if July is a nectarine,
juice running all the way down to your knees,
if August is a blueberry, sad and sweet, struggling to just be in the present,
then September is an apple, finally here, warm on the outside and cool on the inside.
Every so often I post a picture that includes the wall beyond our table and someone asks what is that? That, I say, is the map. And I always promise to tell the story of of the map, someday.