As kids we ate Del Monte peas, carrots, green beans from a can. I have no memory of fresh zucchini, broccoli, eggplant or beets ever appearing on our plates. My mother didn’t like to cook, though she was raised picking from her father’s garden—golden corn and juicy tomatoes, lettuces grown green and fresh, fava beans brought from the old country. She fancied herself a modern woman, or perhaps, she just didn’t have the time or inclination, after running around after five young children all day.
Watching a football game that I don’t really care about. Toggling the news channel. The world’s a mess, but keep hope alive. I can hear the water turned on and off in the apartment next door. A dog barks across the way. The city is waiting for the storm to drop. My stomach gurgles. I feel content.