#memories

The kitchen window was open this morning, letting in that particular March light—pale gold, still carrying a hint of winter's clarity. I decided to make

shakshuka

for breakfast, something I hadn't attempted in months.

The persimmons at the market this morning stopped me in my tracks. They were nearly translucent in the early light, that deep amber-orange that only comes at the end of their season. The vendor smiled when I picked one up. "Last of the year," she said. "They're perfect now."

I bought six, even though I'd only planned to browse.

Back home, I sliced one open and the flesh was impossibly soft, almost jammy. The aroma hit me first—floral, honey-sweet, with something darker underneath, like dried apricots left in the sun. I'd forgotten how different a fully ripe persimmon tastes from the firm ones I usually grab. This one practically melted on my tongue, leaving a silky sweetness that lingered for minutes.

The tomatoes sat on the counter this morning, their skins still cool from the refrigerator, deep red fading to pale green shoulders. I'd bought them yesterday at the farmer's market from a woman who said,

"These are the last of the greenhouse crop—won't see this sweetness again till summer."

Her words lingered as I sliced into the first one.

The persimmons at the corner market looked like little amber lanterns this morning, their skins glossy and taut. I picked up three, feeling that slight give that means they're

hachiya

and almost ready. The vendor nodded approvingly when I pressed gently near the stem—"Two more days," she said, and I believed her.