My husband has this need to insult things he does not like. This includes food. So instead of saying chestnuts, he refers to them as bark. It’s funny, but even though I love eating chestnuts I am not sure if even I think they taste that great. Does that make sense?

When I was a little girl I remember that they were a rarity. Something that was very much seasonal, unlike most foods sold in America. And there was work involved in roasting them. You see, you can’t just throw them on the fire, you need to score the shell which is very tough to cut through. If you ask me to describe their taste I can’t come up with much more than bland. But I still love them.

In the States they were something my mom would prepare. Or when I was older, if I was ‘lucky’ I could buy some in Manhattan from vendor on street corners, but they were never good. Even knowing that they would taste bad, I would still buy them. I think it’s because chestnuts were and still are a memory trigger. Eating them reminds me of our second home in Connecticut. The one where we lived with Clara P. Don’t ask me why. They just do. That was an incredibly wonderful time for me. My carefree childhood memories we almost all formed while living there. We lived in a great  house, downstairs from a wonderful friend, a sister almost. Our neighborhood was fun. And I was a kid, with a mom. I am happy just thinking how nice it was.

So, you can probably understand why I stop and buy chestnuts, castanhas as we call them, just about every time I walk by this lady. She is probably the age my mother would be. Her life seems as if it was a bit tougher than my mom’s. But she is nice, she smiles and she serves me warm, freshly roasted chestnuts. And I know too well that her cart will disappear when the season ends. So I will savor each and every one until it does.