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They were not large carrots. And I have already eaten two of them, chewing thoroughly; they taste like home.

That is not a figurative statement. The dirt, the sun, the water… The town I grew up in fed these carrots; the dirt I excavated in inexplicable childhood projects and the water I drank for most of my first 20 years went into these carrots.

Of course I’ve eaten fruit from that garden before: grapes, currants, tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, peppers, peas… I don’t know why I hadn’t sensed Home in those so strongly — maybe I didn’t have the vocabulary, maybe I usually ate them at that location, not hundreds of miles away. Maybe root vegetables concentrate earthiness and location more than other produce. I could understand that.

Or maybe the little carrots I typically eat these days are such overbred little hydroponic sugar crunchies that homegrown carrots, however small, shout their truth very loudly.

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