Good morning.
It's already Thursday, who would have thought. And already April.
Although here, in the countryside, time runs differently.
In April, morning arrives with a golden light that filters through the orange trees and wakes you without asking permission. It smells of orange blossom, you hear the constant buzzing of bees and other pollinators going from flower to flower as if they had a shopping list.
The earth still holds the coolness of the night, and when you put your hand in, you feel the damp, soft touch, like well-risen bread.
If you pause for a second, you realize that the air tastes a little different.
April is the month when everything truly awakens. We take advantage of the long hours of daylight to finish fine pruning on fruit trees, place the stakes that will guide the tomatoes and beans, and hand-weed the plants competing for water.
We start regular, gentle watering at dawn, so the soil can drink without the sun carrying it away through evaporation.
We prepare the garden beds with care, as our grandparents taught us, with patience and traditional tools. Some days you finish with forearms like you've been to the gym, from tying and untying stakes, but it's that good kind of tiredness that leaves your mind clear.
At this time of year, the countryside is an open-air science class. More light means more energy for plants. More energy means buds, leaves, flowers, and bees in celebration. If you've ever wondered why everything seems to go faster in spring, that's why.
But curiously, it invites us to slow down so as not to disturb, to accompany without rushing.
And in the midst of all this, our seasonal products emerge, which only last a few weeks and disappear quietly. Like the strawberries, which continue to advance steadily in their season.
Our harvests are limited, for the simple reason that they arrive and leave at nature's pace.
We work with several farmers across Spain and organize ourselves like a small orchestra. Every morning, before the sun is high, I review the orders with my first sip of coffee, and we go out to harvest only what you've ordered. Directly from the tree to the box.
It has no mystery, and at the same time, it has everything. We do it this way because it's how our elders did it, with their hands and minds, and because eating something harvested that very morning has a flavor that cannot be explained, only silently felt.
I hope today you find five minutes to think about everything spring brings. Even if it's at your doorstep, with the door ajar, taking a deep breath. If during that time you imagine the buzzing of bees and the rustle of a freshly cut leaf, we're already closer.
A big hug from Valencia and thank you for being there. Whenever you want, you'll find us here, harvesting on demand at the rhythm of the light and with the calm of someone who works as their grandparents taught them.
Have a beautiful week and we'll read each other next time, unhurried and in good spirits. See you soon.
