As a young girl growing up on a California vineyard, I passed the long summers outdoors, and when I wasn't catching lizards or squeezing grapes into fizzy water in order to make "wine spritzers", I was foraging. I picked miner's lettuce from the wet grass, wine grapes from their vines, thick-skinned grapefruit that had no business growing that far north, and even the occasional ant, just to remind myself what they tasted like. But my favorite treats were the kumquats that grew in two barrels outside my father's office. The trees the fruits adorned like early Christmas ornaments stood four feet tall and were laden with glossy, dark green leaves and white, starlike blossoms. I'd seek shade from the midday sun behind their branches, pluck handfuls of the oblong, orange fruit, and gobble them up in two bites. Each one exploded in my mouth with tart, pleasing bitterness, and I'd eat until the acid burned my lips, leaving just enough fruit on each tree to disguise my gluttony.