Coffee: Organic Honduran, Trader Joe’s brand
Summer’s just peaches. My mother loved ’em. Grandmother liked ’em. Dad ate them when they were there. At first, I had to have them peeled – when my lips got to the fuzzy skin I felt like I was eating a caterpillar. These days, I like the fuzz. It’s sweet and mournful. Innocent meat.
Food and culture are inseparable. Southern peaches made the sun brighter and my disposition lighter in the hot, tacky days from May to August. The bulk of my culture, though, is better expressed in TV dinners. We fed bones and muscle on carefully organized trays: this here, that there, don’t you mix them! Vegetables and meats never understood each other. And don’t get me started with the mac and cheese…
Is that why Americans can’t let go of segregation?
Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
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“You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches.”- Dita Von Teese