This memory is about peanuts. More specifically, it's about a girl and her father, talking about peanuts...

Halfway up Pike Drive in Tannertown, which was a fisher town, sat a little yellow house, and in that yellow house lived an Irish family of parents and four girls. Yes, all girls. No matter how hard they tried and what foods they ate to bring a boy into the world, girls, girls, girls. The man, a writer and fisherman, sat at the kitchen table, slicing an apple. It wasn't for him. He'd just crunch right into it. It was for his youngest daughter, Mary, who sat at the table with him, all of 6 years old. The others and his wife had gone out for a hike.

"I know you like these things with peanut butter, huh."

"Yeah."

"Hey, did I ever tell you about your great-granddad, the peanut farmer? Yep, that's what he was, a peanut farmer. Ain't that a kick? And you know, he'd get up every morning before work, I think at 3, and he'd go out into the kitchen, all cast in a blue glow, and he'd sit down for a cup and write a poem a day. Yep, every day. And I got his first poetry book right here. A few poems about peanuts, you know."

"Is that why you're a writer?"

"Guess so, huh. It's funny how that works. Because you know, I could have been a peanut farmer. What then? A whole different life we'd be living now. And I doubt after all that hard work in the fields--surrounded by peanuts--you would wanna rush back here for some peanut butter. But what do I know?"