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 orange 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
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