The Snap of Green

The first bite of a summer apple is a sound before it is a taste. It is a sharp, clean crack that travels through the jaw and settles behind the ears, a sudden release of cold, acidic juice that stings the tongue just enough to wake the nerves. My mother used to toss herbs into a bowl with such casual grace that the scent of crushed mint and parsley would cling to the kitchen air for hours, a green, peppery ghost of the garden. We eat with our teeth, with the rough friction of leaves against the roof of the mouth, and with the way the skin of a fruit resists before it yields. We are built to crave this crispness, this brief collision of earth and water that cleanses the palate of everything heavy. When was the last time you let the simple, sharp snap of a season dictate the rhythm of your afternoon?

Joss Linde has captured this exact sensation in the image titled Summer Days. It feels like the first cool breath of a garden after a long, humid heat. Does the crispness of these greens reach you as it reaches me?