![]() The sky is cloudless, and an aroma of peroxide and citrus peel lingers in the warm winter air. I needed to talk to that farmer out on U.S. A feeling of dread, but also curiosity, arose. Though the region is part of a landmass that falls gracefully from the hilly Piedmont to the ocean, it is nowhere close to the traditional citrus belt of central Florida.Įach time I glanced at the fruit, Mom’s words, I guess we can grow them here, now, roamed around my brain like a moody raccoon. My hometown of Metter lies in Georgia’s upper coastal plain, 100 miles, as the crow flies, north of Florida. Each tiny segment, robust with sweet, tangy juice, enticed me more. Confused by this, I kept a suspicious eye on the fruit. I thought Mom must be mistaken, but she assured me. I spent the first 18 years of my life in south Georgia and never saw a single orange tree. “A man in Statesboro grows them,” Mom said. Too lively, I thought, to have made the trip from Florida. Lively leaves perked from their stems as if still reaching toward the sun. ![]() Tiny heads of fresh citrus formed a delicious mound in a ceramic bowl. A blaze of orange, a tropical tone in winter, glowed from a dark corner of my mother’s kitchen. ![]()
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