![]() ![]() As I wash vegetables, he packs them away in the fridge. He pulls the car up our driveway, and the two of us walk inside. When we were in Chicago recently, visiting his grandma in a rehabilitation home, Tim’s aunt pulled out a thermos of escarole for her, cooked exactly the way Tim likes it: sauteed in garlicky olive oil until soft and wilty, combined with water or broth and a little salt. ![]() His family ate salad every night, and to this day, they all like sauteed spinach, sauteed mustard, sauteed Swiss chard. In fact, he loves all greens.Īs you may remember from his salad post, he grew up in a home where they were everyday fare. Included in this week’s CSA haul are lettuce, celery, radishes, garlic, a handful of thyme, and the item that prompted Tim’s idea: beets. ![]() While it’s words that flow out of me when I feel great affection, for Tim, it’s more practical things, simple actions to show that he cares.Īs he throws out this request, two bags of produce rumble along with us through industrial corners and residential streets in Woodbine and Berry Hill. It’s right up there with killing bugs, cleaning out gutters, and replacing the battery in our car – all tasks I guess I could do, if pressed, but which to me are becoming as good as poetry and candlelit dinners. So the fact that he usually drives is one way he serves me. He knows I’d rather sit – sit and look at Instagram, sit and watch people out the window, sit and zone out to ponder some new topic he will no doubt hear about from me in due time. He’s driving, just as he usually is when we’re in the car together. “Will you do me a favor?” Tim says to me, the two of us sitting side by side in the car. ![]()
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