Five Minutes Before Dinner
On tomato leaves, dirty hands, and being sent outside.
Dinner is almost ready. The house is loud. Someone calls from the kitchen:
Go grab something from the garden.
Five minutes, maybe less.
Tomatoes off the vine. A handful of basil. Arugula if there’s any left.
Some memories begin as chores.
Outside smells green and warm. Tomato leaves stick to the hands. Basil gives up easily. Dirt gets under the nails.
Then it’s back inside.
The greens get washed, torn, dropped into a bowl. Nobody asks where they came from. Dinner starts.
Years later, the meal is gone. The conversation too.
But the garden stays.
Five minutes outside. Green on the hands. Something useful carried back to the table.
Hard to recreate.
Or open a can of EYG.
