Mitchell Espy Wilson
Yuck. Who likes black licorice? It was raining in the parking lot at Smith and Edward’s a few days ago. Ez and Meish were with me (they love Smith and Edwards): we saw a friend hurrying by. She had been (several years ago) our favorite babysitter in Washington, and she was with her husband and her new baby. We exchanged happy greetings, and I apologized for my black teeth. “I’ve just been eating black licorice,” I said. The husband couldn’t stifle an automatic “Gross!” I laughed. My kids would agree. Who likes black licorice?
But lately, it is my comfort food. Two or three times a day, I pop a licorice drop in my mouth, and savor its pungent sweetness. My Grandpa Wilson used to nab his nicotine cravings with black licorice drops while he sat through church (Grandma made him go). I think I love black licorice (and it has to be the good stuff, not the nasty tar-flavored Twizzlers) because of Grandpa’s surreptitious sharing: he would sneak the candy into the palm of my hand when I sat next to him in the pew. And I knew Grandpa loved me. I think that’s the point. Who doesn’t want to be loved?
I am committed to a week and a half of intense sewing. I’d like to be planting, but it isn’t going to happen for awhile. There is somewhere close to 25 yards of various fabrics awaiting me; tomorrow, they will be well on their way to transformation into formal wear for Cotillion (two dresses and one vest), and costumes for my sister’s gymnastics show (three funky pairs of capris). I’m excited to post pictures of all the results—nah, at this point, I’m just excited to be finished, but meanwhile…. Meanwhile, I’m popping licorice drops. Here’s to you, Grandpa.
