"My mother and I sat at a long table under a persimmon tree in Sighnaghi, a village in the Republic of Georgia."
Read Karen Shimizu's essay, "Lifted Spirits". Flickr member Etwood, CC licensed
Read Karen Shimizu's essay, "Lifted Spirits". Flickr member Etwood, CC licensed
My mother and I sat at a long table under a persimmon tree in Sighnaghi, a village in the Republic of Georgia. I reached for my wine, but our friend Sergo shook his head: not yet. This was my first supra, the centuries-old traditional Georgian meal, and I didn’t realize that you could drink only after a toast had been made. Sergo went on to make many—to God (sip), to ancestors (sip), to absent friends (sip, sip). We ate heartily and toasted often; tongues were made earnest by wine, hearts were softened by song. Never before had I been so swept up in the sharing of words and food.
