Last
summer when I accompanied my husband to a scientific meeting in Italy, one of
the graduate students at our table took a bite of salmon and said, “Mmmm.
Tastes like home.”
That phrase evokes strong images. For me, it is ripe strawberries. When I was little, before Southern Californian property values skyrocketed, Japanese immigrants had strawberry farms in an area known as Portuguese Bend. When my mom took us to her favorite stand, the elderly woman who worked there would pick two of her biggest strawberries and give them to my brother and me. Those fresh-picked berries, still warm from the sun, had a million times more flavor than the grocery store kind.
What tastes like home to you?
What tastes like home to your characters?
That phrase evokes strong images. For me, it is ripe strawberries. When I was little, before Southern Californian property values skyrocketed, Japanese immigrants had strawberry farms in an area known as Portuguese Bend. When my mom took us to her favorite stand, the elderly woman who worked there would pick two of her biggest strawberries and give them to my brother and me. Those fresh-picked berries, still warm from the sun, had a million times more flavor than the grocery store kind.
What tastes like home to you?
What tastes like home to your characters?
No comments:
Post a Comment