I hate weeding. Small weeding, the persistent stuff that you can never get rid of, onion weed and wandering jew, is no fun. But Grandma’s vegetable garden, a single bed now when once it was an entire backyard, is one of her few pleasures. So every week, I weed it. She sits in a garden chair, behind the big old house that’s now a nursing home, and points out what I’ve missed.
But then we slice a fragrant tomato, warm from the sun, and I understand why it’s worth weeding, and why I’m lucky to still be fed by Gran.