Chapters (45)
- Cover
- Blame Iton Paris
- Copyright Notice
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Book One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Book Two
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
First Man and First Woman got in a fight, and she left mad. By the time First Man realized this wasn’t a good thing, she had such a good head start and such a good grudge on that he couldn’t catch up to mend things. He followed her and followed her, but she wouldn’t stop striding away, and he could never get to her. So God created all kinds of things to help slow her down—forests and lakes—but nothing worked. Then God brought out the great guns: he made strawberries. That stopped First Woman, all right. A patch of good strawberries would me, too. Eating the luscious red fruit softened her mood, reminded her of the sweetness of human love, and gave First Man time to catch up; she even shared some of her strawberries with him, just like I sometimes share my chocolate with Sébastien. The two made up and lived happily ever after and, in good Catholic coda, populated the earth.
My father completely missed the moral of this story—that good food can resolve most problems. Instead, he said, “Now, I’m warning you all—and especially you, Laura and Sébastien—that from now on whenever you eat strawberries, you’ll remember this story and know again that the only thing sweeter than the taste of strawberries is human love. And you ask yourself, Is there someone waiting now for me to catch up? Or should I wait for someone who is trying to catch up with me?”
That was oddly moving, and something for both of us to do a lot of thinking about. In our relationship, one person was always in a culture alien to the other—far ahead, in a sense, of the other who had no chance of catching up. I looked at my father suspiciously. “I’m stealing this story from the famous author Andrew Greeley, who adapted it from a Cherokee tale,” he explained to everyone. I felt relieved. It’s always disorienting when a parent starts sounding wise all by himself.
Sébastien was so excited and happy the heat of it swelled his hands, and it took me much pushing and shoving to get his ring on his finger. The church laughed. “We’re married!” I whispered to Sébastien, feeling as if those thousands of butterflies that had been in my stomach so long were about to take flight and carry me with them. “We’re really, truly married!”
“Oh, now we’re married?” he whispered back. “Thanks for keeping me posted. I never know, with you.” His eyes were shining.