By on 12 October 2015

Well, I haven’t left yet. So, my first story belongs to me. It’s not about a certain recipe either. It is about a plain, humble gift of nature: Walnuts… It’s also about a place where the soil was rich, the sun was bright and all the fruits tasted like heaven. It’s about Cesmealti, a small fishermen’s town where my roots belong.

We used to have this garden full of various fruit trees; apples, plums, pomegranates, lemons, oranges and right in the middle of it, a giant walnut tree. It was tall, it was glorious. To the 7 years old version of me, it was the pillar of the earth.

I used to pack myself a sandwich, grab a couple of books and sneak away from our house. After walking among the orange and tangerine trees and the dazzling smell of their leaves, I’d reach my tree. I used to make myself comfortable on one of its branches and when I look up, today I still remember how the rays of light used to get through its leaves… making me think that our garden is certainly enchanted. Yet, still feeling comfortable under its shadow, I have read maybe a hundred books, hiding away from other people and loved the walnut tree like a grandfather I never had. I’d imagine its branches were the arms of a very old man, embracing me, telling me ancient tales. Maybe they were… who knows. Maybe if I am an ok story teller, I owe it to my tree grandfather. Therefore walnuts mean something more to me than to most people. Walnuts mean days spent under the sun, happy, carefree and peacefully. Walnuts mean a warm embrace from something whom I felt like deeply cared for me. It’s my summer holidays, my idle hours lost in the pages of a book. Mostly an Agatha Christie book, full of intrigue and surprises. Those books were the seeds of my love for literature and made me hope maybe someday I’d have my own books published and will be read by other kids on top of other trees.

So yes, that’s a story about me… Me and a walnut tree.