She asked me to get to know the dirt, from my knees, under my fingernails, behind my ears. The late spring dirt where warming roots shot leaves upward. Because when you grew your own salad, you didn’t need a coupon for Alberton’s. The peas too. They were dry and mealy in the produce section. It was mostly green leaf and red leaf lettuce and though she probably knew, I was too young for her to tell me lettuce was part of the daisy family and was originally grown in Ancient Egypt. But she rarely cooked anything that wasn’t roast beef and potatoes, grilled fish and squash casseroles. There was an Egyptian restaurant close to her house, but it was right next to the ice cream shop, so we’d prioritize sweet cream over Koshari. Salad had to be part of every meal, for fiber, for vitamins. That’s how she lived to be 95. She suggested I imagine the future of her tomatoes mingling with cucumbers. How delicious. But she always begrudged bites that went into her mouth, every calorie counted, balanced with swimming or long walks. She flicked slugs off the lettuce while making goofy faces and whistled while moving though vegetable rows. Eventually there were carrots and cucumbers and peas sneaking over the fence to the empty lot next door where she would move and start a smaller garden, under the same splinter of sun.
