Among the highlights of Tamalehawk transatlantic journey were the fifteen minutes he hovered in a wooden closet of a produce shop in the bucolic village of Dedham. Surrounded by fruits and vegetables nestled in crates and still warm from the earth, tree, or vine they were recently wrenched from, Tamalehawk wanted to cook a huge stew in the middle of the floor using only his unbridled enthusiasm as a heat source. Local baby leeks? Strange potatoes and mystical mushrooms? Come on! It was too much for him to take.
He thought he had everything under control until he tasted these local strawberries, whose color and luster could make you blush. He only needed to eat one to realize that all other strawberries ever consumed by anyone in the world were in fact stupid and fraudulent. Just to make sure it wasn't a cruel anomaly, he ate an apple, which immediately mocked him with its complete perfection and tasted sweeter than a tiny angel's prayers.
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