Right now I’m missing wild leeks and garlic scapes and the pungency of all that potential pesto. In May it seems a crime not to be making it by the jarful and spooning it into my mouth so half of it’s gone before pasta’s had a chance to hit the water. I’m going to get another tattoo, this time garlic scapes curling up my arm. It’s taken me seven years to reach this conclusion, but I think it’s the right time. It’s a chance at a feeling of a little bit of permanence in a life that is in the end, fleeting. It’s an historical artifact. It’s a story, and people like me, who are bad at small talk, need stories we can draw on when we have no desire to hear what that person with the loosened tie and tired eyes does between the hours of 9 to 5 and what movies they’ve seen lately and their thoughts on the recent turn in the weather.