Early evening, after sunset when the dark is drawing near.
The fifth day of seven or eight hot days in a row. The first time in three days when the wind has swung around to the south, cooling the air enough that we can go outside before late evening.
The two year old has discovered the first of the ripe grapes, and has been carefully picking himself a handful. I’ve checked the oldest and newest of the vines and brought a lone bunch away for myself. I sit on the bench under the lemon tree to eat them. The two-year-old comes to sit with me, I scoot over, he thanks me for making room for him.
We sit peacefully, eating our grapes together. These are the quiet times I know he enjoys, a safe place, with Mum, and with food he’s found for himself. He spontaneously says “Mummy, I love this.”
I smile, hug him and tell him I love it too. I talk in small words about growing food, how I love to do it, how I love that he loves getting his own food. I tell him that I will keep teaching him and his sister how to find their own food, how to grow it, because being able to grow food is very very special. Because he will like being able to grow food that he likes.
He nods in agreement, chews thoughtfully on a grape.
Then says with quiet careful thought and pause “I want to grow… a tuna sandwich”.