Pesto.
Pesto. Pesto.
Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.
Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.
Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.
Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.
Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.
Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.
Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto. Pesto.
Now that we have that out of the way, let me take you to a tropical beach where the sand is too hot to walk on and the water is the same color as the sky. We're lounging in hammocks in a roofless cabana made of bamboo limbs tied tightly together. At high tide, the hissing surf comes a meter or two from our doorless door. A Toltec fertility temple slouches halfway to ruin in one direction; a rocky shoreline lurks just out of view in another. As long as the current doesn't take us out to Cuba or our feet damage the coral reef, floating in the lazy waves is nourishing for the soul. But it doesn't feed the belly. So we walk, sometimes scramble, over the pile of car-sized black rocks to the local market, where we load up on hot tortillas, zaftig mangos, and avocados as big as our heads, and take them back to our hammocks. Imagine the tortillas melting in your mouth. The mangos yielding like a willing bride to your knife. And when you bite into the avocado, the juice running down your arm.
It was half a lifetime ago but it's here with us, isn't it? Happy Birthday, Vin, and I hope we'll remember the mangos of today twenty-five years from now.
xo,
Bob
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