And another thing, as he splits open a warm loaf of bread, pleased with the crackle of crust. This may I business. Get to the point. Take action, damnit. And why tell me to do things, and then say thank you. Sit down, thank you. Take a number, thank you, stand there, thank you. His father got to the point. For weeks he would watch his neighbors’ peach trees, rooted in the dirt of crumbled gods and goddesses. Waiting until the fruit stunned with ripeness. He would take it. He would eat it. The first time he went apple picking, he ignored the abundant apples, found a walnut tree on the other side of the fence. He pointed. Smiled. After walking 500 miles to escape the enemy army, after raising his children while his wife’s heart and mind failed, after crossing oceans, after loaf after loaf of coarse brown bread, he had no interest in denying himself such pleasures. I spread apricot preserves on my piece of bread. He dips his piece in fragrant olive oil, the grass of his childhood unfurling beneath our feet. And then my baby runs towards us, hold me, no please no may I, and he grins as he reaches down for her. That’s how it’s done.