One of my earliest memories as a child is of sour fruit juice staining my face at my Y gym class.
You may think this face was evidence of civil disobedience to come, but I swear, it was the bitter juice.
A lot of my memories of growing up, like most people, I imagine, are about food and eating.
I remember having smoked salmon jerky in White Rock, BC with my Maori grandfather. I swam in the cold ocean with my mom and we laughed as we watched grandpa on the beach, picking clams out of their shell and sliding them into his mouth, raw.
I remember, later that day at dinner, sitting at the immaculately-set table of my grandfather’s new girlfriend. She had privately asked me to call her “grandma” even though I had just met her. I was nervous and tried to sit still and eat properly, but my hands…
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