My mom and I made a big pot of T.'s blog version of West African peanut soup (we used to call this groundpea soup in Liberia, and my mom made it for years after we came back, out of a cookbook, but this version has sweet potato in it and all things with sweet potato are automatically and forever better), and we served it for Sunday dinner.
The kiddos scorned it, of course. They survive on bread and fruit. But even my brother ate a big plate of it over rice, and when it came supper time, I ate it again.
I had also seeded four pomegranates (the kids wouldn't touch those, either). My dad's great-aunt asked me if they were hard, and I said no.
Then I ate a forkful of them.
"They are hard," she said. "I can hear them crunching."
Is crunchy the same as hard?
My little niece was terrified of me two years ago, but now she takes my hand to walk down the street or through the woods. She drags me over to play snakes and dinosaurs with her.
And the sun shines, and the days pass.