I have a real longing for my grandfather’s grapes.
When I was little, we would go out in the vineyards on my great-grandparent’s property and pick grapes. Many a grape would go into our mouths before reaching the kitchen, and I can still taste the sticky goodness. My teeth would break through the thick outer skins, anticipating the sweet juiciness inside. Not wanting to miss a drop, the grape would go down my throat, seed and all. Welch’s white grape juice is as close as it gets to the taste I remember.
The grapes of today are nothing like those grapes of my childhood. They are thin-skinned and the inside of the grape has almost the same texture as the outside. The only word I can use to describe them is bland.
One day, however, I was meeting the woman who delivers a monthly bag of locally grown produce to me, and she said, “You’ve got to taste these grapes. They were just picked yesterday by an Indiana farmer.” I took a grape into my mouth and was immediately transported back to my grandfather’s vineyard. I said, “These are my grandfather’s grapes. I am seriously in heaven.”