Finding an old box of fruit-packing stashed in the rafters of his barn, David Mas Masumoto imagines a letter to his father on the subject of heirloom fruit, a reverie pervaded by the memory of exquisite flavor. A day's work in the fields has him writing to his grandmother, empathizing with her first encounters with the strange insects of the North American continent. When college acceptance letters arrive for his daughter, Masumoto writes to her about the fate of the family farm, in a letter that is simultaneously straightforward, touching, and provoking. These letters cling to the living traces of a time when life-food, work, family-was experienced slowly and fully. They present the possibility of a future in which this is still possible, in which flavor is not just a memory.
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