Missing Mint Juleps

A couple days ago, at dinner, we went around the table, taking turns naming all the things we miss about Charlottesville. English. Our yard. The walk to school. Our vegetable garden. The Downtown Mall. Fridays After Five. WriterHouse. Friends who live so close.

Then we read the blog post I wrote before we came to Paris, “Things I Will Miss About Charlottesville.”

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that, while eating breakfast, Ella, my (just-turned-ten-year-old) daughter, watched a New York Times video about how to make Southern fried chicken.

“I’m going to make something for you,” she said, shooing me out of the kitchen. Two minutes later, she handed me a cold drink of muddled mint and sugar. “A mint julep,” I said. “I miss those, too.” We used to pick the rampant mint taking over our garden, crush it with a mortar and pestle, and serve with ice and sugar (bourbon for the adults, virgin versions for Ella). We would sit on our covered porch, tilt back our rocking chairs, and watch the magnolias open their blooms on our mammoth tree, so big it reminds me of the baobobs in The Little Prince.

Today we did the best we could to approximate that experience. Our living room windows look onto a courtyard across from a roof flower garden. We opened them wide, pulled up stools, and sipped a little bit of home.