I’ve started a new bed of mint between the apricot tree and the blueberry. It’s from the mint that grew on our old farm, behind my childhood home, where for a time near the edge of the bed there was a small, well-shaded hole in the ground, from which, in the cool of the evening, a fat toad would emerge for a meal and a peek through the mint at the world.
We dry some for kitchen use every year. It’s different than the mint varieties we’ve tasted here, but I’d have a hard time describing how its appearance and flavor is more agreeable to us than the others. And there’s really no point, because our mint would likely seem a bit off to those accustomed to the local mints. One difference I can speak to, though, is that here we have no toads. But we still have our childhood.
May 31, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Apricots, Blueberries, Childhood, Diaries, Journals, Memory, Mint, Our Old Farm, The San Joaquin Valley, Toads