My grandmother taught me to smell the peaches before touching them. I still do it every single Saturday morning.
Warm bread, ripe fruit, and jars of honey lined up like little trophies. That’s what pulled me out of bed early one weekend, half asleep and still in pajama pants.
Georgia mornings feel different at a farmers market, slower somehow, but louder with laughter and haggling over tomato prices. My daughter now begs for samples before we’ve even found parking…