Violets are for faithfullness

As a child, I picked dozens of tiny nosegays only for them to be abandoned by my being distracted by a butterfly, my book on Mary Queen of Scots, or what I was actually supposed to be doing: weeding the vegetable garden. Most of the spring peas never made it into the house, instead, they slid down my greedy gullet.

I became reacquainted with my sweet speckly friends several years ago on a solo trip to Paris. Candied violets seemed to be everywhere, and I purchased bag upon magical bag for presents, only to be eaten on the long flight from Charles De Gaulle to Rekjavik, and Rekjavik to O’Hare, much like those spring peas.