She always relished the first big reds of May. Would rub them over her bread as they did in Gerona when she was a girl &
garlic & oil & salads in winter with green & tart & a Sofrito she slathered on spinach to make it sweet &
crawling on hand & knee in her grandfather’s garden to find the ripest under the vines & peeling them &
scooping out seeds & building her first pasta con tomate y pesto for Niko her Italian &
well chilled Gaspacho for Gabrielle her Spaniard & fried for her mother who calmed their heat with a cool alioli & the ripest
she’d squeeze to a bota & pack her case & ride with you to a cool spring where you’d swim with her under the willows & lie down with her
in the cool grass & tear the bread & spread the ripened cheese & fill your mouth with juice – its ages – green & white & pink & red.