As we were sitting at the table under the trees in our orchard, drinking wine, playing instruments, and carting trays of meat back and forth from the wood-fired oven, I stared at a pomegranate tree, so full of ripe fruit. It felt like my tree. Finally.
That was one of the times I thought it would be nice to be sterilising glass bottles and storing the juice for the winter. I would put it in my pantry with the fig jam, the litres of olive oil, and the dried apples, pears, prickly pears, chesnuts, almonds, and walnuts this year yielded. I stared at that tree and asked myself if I was ready for the simplicity of this life.
