San Francisco, 1992: My husband, our three-year-old daughter, and I have moved to America, and a few days after landing, I head to the San Rafael farmers' market. I don't yet know that it is the third largest in the state, but I do know that I've stumbled upon something wonderful—heaps of baby carrots, purple and yellow and orange, next to piles of shimmering purple eggplant, willowy stalks of herbs, and so many different colors of potatoes and peppers and onions I don't know where to begin. That night, I ask my husband if we can buy a place within walking distance, and a few weeks later I'm unpacking in a house a mile from the market. I cannot drive, but know I need to be here, in the sun, smelling the vegetables before I put them in my basket, and so for years, I walk to the market every Sunday, load up on vegetables, and then walk back, bags swinging from my arms. During the spring one day, as I pick fava beans by the handful so I can take them home for a stovetop spring undhiyu, I suddenly realize that, for the first time in years, I don't feel homesick.