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“My dad and I sitting just a few yards away on the lakefront, sharing a snack of ripe figs stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in a local salted, cured meat, a sort of prosciutto. I was probably twelve or thirteen. Dad was using his pocket knife to slit the figs and stuff them with gobs of the creamy goat cheese, his big fingers surprisingly dexterous. I open my eyes and glance to the right, seeing us sitting there side by side, dangling our legs in the cool water. I can almost taste again the gritty sweetness of the figs, the rich creamy funk of the goat cheese, the salty umami of the dried meat. It was a simple, perfect snack on a simple, perfect day.” — Rachel Linden
My dad and I sitting just a few yards away on the lakefront, sharing a snack of ripe figs stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in a local salted, cured meat, a sort of prosciutto. I was probably twelve or thirteen. Dad was using his pocket knife to slit the figs and stuff them with gobs of the creamy goat cheese, his big fingers surprisingly dexterous. I open my eyes and glance to the right, seeing us sitting there side by side, dangling our legs in the cool water. I can almost taste again the gritty sweetness of the figs, the rich creamy funk of the goat cheese, the salty umami of the dried meat. It was a simple, perfect snack on a simple, perfect day.