At the old convent on the hill I gather chassepareille from the woods and soak it in cold water. I drink this infusion with spherical ice while the girls and I snack on plaquemines. I tell them that the least attractive fruits taste the best and let the pretty, perfect ones pucker our mouths. We cut the seeds on the seam and open them like books to foretell the winter weather. I explain to the girls that learning Louisiana French is as much about the fruits of the land as it is about the language.
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