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Monday, August 14, 2017
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Friday, August 11, 2017

When I was about 10 or 11, I’d visit my paternal grandparents in Pennsylvania during the summers, and fresh fruit — peaches, plums, watermelon, strawberries — was always in supply. We’d dine al fresco on the porch of their old stone house, and as cars whizzed by on the road in front of us, we’d savor our meals — breakfast, lunch and dinner — before jetting off to the backyard for a swim in their pool or exploring their basement (a dark, cold cellar off the main room downstairs was always a curiosity of mine).