The craft of food
My grandfather always wore a muted tan hat . I don't know the name of that style hat because we still call it the "Pappou hat." The back of it wore layers of stained sweat as Pappou bent over, legs apart, knees slightly bent, and the sun at his back. He inspected each tree in his backyard grove caressing the rough bark with his tanned fingers. I studied the wrinkles etched around his eyes caused by years of sun exposure as he focused on the details of the fruit. He mumbled something in Greek as he shuffled along to the next tree. "Pappou, why is this tree growing a lemon and an orange?" I asked. What magical fruit tree was this? He didn't make eye contact as he explained 'grafting.' I watched his expressionless face barely paying attention to his words. His hands moved and his weight shifted on both feet as he turned to demonstrate his skills. He danced with the magical fruit trees. Each day that week I visited those trees. I pretend
