Autumn days dwindle. Yellow-brown grass flattens in the backyard. Bone-white ceramic tile chills my bare feet as I fumble for a store-bought orange from the creaky refrigerator bin. It feels tired in my hand.
The years roll back.
On frosty Saturday mornings, I sometimes rode with my father to the farmers market in Birmingham’s West End. Fires burned in rusting drums while folks huddled in the dark, waiting for trucks hauling citrus from distant groves, where winter went green year-round. Our city was then an iron-and-steel town, with blast furnaces casting a glow that flickered and played in the night sky.
Dawn streaked, and suddenly the sun flashed on big rigs rolling in and bearing Deep South nectar—aromatic oranges and luscious grapefruit.
The time is ripe to feast on winter’s sweet goodness—fresh out of hand or from this family recipe.