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Adelaide B. Shaw
A rarity, blood oranges at the market. I buy several and remember her delight when she found them again, decades after leaving her home in the Sicilian hills. The mottled red-orange skin, the reddish flesh, juicy and sweet.
I add goat cheese to my cart and remember her stories about buying cheese and milk from the goat boy every morning.
I remember her dark eyes and warm smile and her deft way with a cooking spoon.
I arrange the red segments, spiraling them on a plate, toss a few cubes of goat cheese here and there, squeeze on some of the red juice, sprinkle with olive oil, salt and a generous shake of freshly ground black pepper.
lunch under the pines
the breeze stirs up a fragrance