Home: the going back, the getting there, the vivid memories of how food really tastes like dancing on the back of your tongue, lending flavour to whatever pale ghost of an imitation it is that you can get wherever you currently are. The sheen of summer sweat on brown skin during dreamily imagined summer scorchers of days taking on moments of romanticism in deep winter.

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I was prepping a mango a few weeks ago for writing break snacking, slicing it into thirds, the way it was taught to me, the way my family cuts mangoes: take the fruit in your hand, hold it firmly, and slice above the pit, starting from where the stalk was. Slice as close to the […]

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