Adjala-Tosorontio

September 2024. The first feast of its kind in a generation, summoned from soil and memory. Seven courses, each a slow-blooming spell, laid gently on adjoined picnic tables as Lola and Zo wove between embers and outstretched hands. Friends wandered the garden with questioning eyes, already tasting what they hadn't yet touched. The air thick with woodsmoke and possibility, soil wedged beneath nails, the night tipping over into something half-feral, half-sacred.

They collaged on plates where Chinese pink celery shimmered like coral formations, champagne tomatoes glowing with sun-memory, heritage honored and renewed. By dawn, it had settled in bodies like ancient wisdom remembered. Pressed into the weight of full bellies and stained palms, something to be held long after plates were cleared. To feast here is to listen, our fingers touching through the living earth.