Umami

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‘A milpa,’ I said.

I stood up on my chair in the dining room and said, ‘A proper, traditional milpa, with corn and beans and squash. I could plant it myself, right next to the picnic table.’

I drew a great circle in the air with my hands and proclaimed, ‘Like our forefathers.’

The three of us looked out of the sliding door to the yard where the picnic table lives. Once upon a time it was folding and portable. The benches on either side slot underneath like the retracting feet of a turtle, and the whole thing transformed into a neat aluminum travel case. Not anymore. It’d probably still fold up, but no one seems keen on picnics these days. Around the table there’s just gray cement (dirty gray), and a row of flowerpots full of dry soil, the remains of some bushes, a broken bucket. It’s a colorless, urban yard. If you spot something green, it’s moss you’re looking at; something red and it’ll be rust.

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