I'm often taken with the sense that children make of the world around--what innate wisdom it holds, and yet how many structural flaws it has. As we spent summers in our home here in Budapest, I thought all things summer as being from here, of here. It was something of a crushing blow--and a simultaneous relief--to find out that these were treasures the rest of the world were in on.
Eating some things in this house, in this yard, is a Proustian falling into them that have me remember all the summers, and have me instantly feel most myself. Just now it was a handful of golden raspberries. The ground beneath my feet awakens to it, and mouths to me that it holds it all.
There are a thousand reasons why I don't live here year-round. And among the hundred practical ones would be added that whilst home is here, home is elsewhere too. (And how could I bear saying goodbye to North American eating apples?? And to good nan bread takeaway around the corner from my house?)
Nevertheless in these moments, when I'm eating here in summer when I'm eating summer here, where it feels a sin against nature to ever leave again.
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