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In February, at the beginning, when everyone went home suddenly and the world outside the house fell silent as if snow had fallen, I stood in my kitchen late at night and peeled open a pomegranate. I remember feeling so quiet and still, just concentrating on the seeds and the red juice.

12 months later, I’m standing in my kitchen sorting freshly harvested tomatoes ahead of roasting. Everything is this new ordinary: I’m still at home, and the traffic is back. No one really knows how long we will be doing this. No one knows what comes next.

And these tomatoes grew their whole sweet selves from seedling to harvest in pandemic time. This is all they’ve known.