One person's picture postcard is someone else's normal. Our driveway was just the first tributary on a memory river sweeping us out. Now we were moving away forever, taking our nostalgic inventory of the things we would never see again: the bush where the roadrunner built a nest and fed lizards to her weird-looking babies the tree Camille crashed into learning to ride a bike the exact spot where Lily touched a dead snake. It was our family's last day in Arizona, where I'd lived half my life and raised two kids for the whole of theirs.
This story about good food begins in a quick-stop convenience market. By Barbara Kingsolver, Camille Kingsolver, and Steven L.
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