Wednesday, July 29, 2020

The boss brings in a bag of fresh carob pods. He picked them himself in his yard this morning. Some still have leaves attached. In the company kitchen, he offers some to me. “Here, take. Take more. But wash them first. They’re right from the tree. You don’t know which birds, you know. And be careful of the seeds.” These carobs are the best I’ve had, sweeter and more tender than what was exported to the States. I was surprised when I first saw carob pods growing on a tree here. I was touring a nature preserve with my Hebrew class two years ago. I had expected that the pods would be larger, perhaps green, and with another, softer layer outside. They aren’t. They come off the trees just as we see them: brown, dry, and chewy. At the nature preserve, they took pictures of us planting small trees, dedicating them to people in our lives. Mine was for my father. I think he would have wanted to move here sometime too. I sent the photo to his branch of the family back in the States. They liked it. I wash off a couple of pods in the kitchen and return to my desk with them and a cup of strong coffee. It takes me a while to eat them. When they’re done, I go back for more.