I had forgotten "grape"

I pulled a box of green grapes out of the fridge last night. I had bought them at the farmer's market--seedless, locally grown, no spray--and then lost them behind some other veggies for a few days. I thought I'd better pull them out right then and start eating them before they went bad. I can't stand to watch produce wither and rot before we get to it. Throwing out what was once a bright yellow, organic pepper, or cleaning up the rotted remains of a striped, heirloom tomato can make me feel awful. And yet, hard as we try, this sometimes happens in these days of summer abundance. I was only mildly in the mood for grapes. Sometimes I crave grapes only to be greatly disappointed when I bite into some fleshy, flavorless orb. I've been eating grapes for years with no expectations beyond a somewhat juicy texture. They are most often, in the end, not very satisfying to the tastebuds.

The first grape was fireworks going off in my mouth. I couldn't believe it. It was grapey like I remembered from childhood. Concord grapey, but sweet, sweet. Like the grapes in my grandmother's back yard, picked warm from the vine as I ran by, playing. (She made a grape pie once. No one in my family remembers this except me, but she did.) I yelled to my partner that he had to come and eat some of these grapes. I could tell by his face that his expectations were not much higher than mine. And then, like me, his face was transformed. These grapes were not a snack, they were an experience. They were a memory. They were barefoot children, feet stained with grass, beckoned by a ripe grapevine, and taking for granted that grapes would always be this good.

I realized then that I had forgotten the flavor of grape. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, I had accepted a poor substitute, like some people do with pink-fleshed, hothouse tomatoes. Our fingers were sticky and frangrant with grape. The smell of grapes pervaded the kitchen and changed me back into that golden, grassy, summer child who once had grandparents with grapevines and long rows of strawberries and carefully staked tomatoes growing in the backyard. Who once snapped beans and husked sweetcorn every night for dinner. Who once knew the flavor of grape.