Mediterranean Baked Sweet Potatoes
Burning campfire air and cricket forest song as we picked our way over the gravel road with bare feet. Hopscotch hopscotch hot coals until we were on solid ground in front of the campground’s swing set, abandoned in the dusk. The trees, heavy with pollen, were outlined in the fading light all around us.
Tamara claimed one swing and I jumped on the other. On the way up to Cane Creek in the back of her parents’ car, we had pointed out every Ford on the road with glee. Each car was a vehicular homage to the object of our 6th grade affection, Brandon Ford, a short blonde kid with freckles. Screaming, “FORD!” and dissolving into giggles was the closest either of us would ever come to being Brandon’s girlfriend (sad, I know), so we relished it.