There’s a citrus tree in my neighborhood, filled with small, sour oranges. I love them. Whenever I pass the tree, I grab one and suck on their sour, satisfying juice.
I did this just yesterday, when I hear a man come up behind me. “Nabbed,” I thought.
I turn around and their is a slim, elderly gentleman. As I’m about to say I’m sorry, he says with a smile, “I know where there’s a great persimmon tree, and other orange trees too.”
A fellow forager!
We fall in step and continue our walk together. He is from Iran, and he tells me that he is not particularly talented at music, or painting, or writing, “but I know the cycles of the seasons.”
He gets a dreamy smile in his old eyes, and starts telling me about how his family made their own yogurt, how his mother cooked wild greens, and all the beautiful fruit trees in his childhood garden.
After walking together for several more blocks, and discussing the beauty of our Northern California clime and its copious food gifts, we shake hands, and part ways.