At 17, I left the United States for a gap year on a small farm in rural Mexico, where I discovered a different relationship with time.
Our evening bread didn’t come from a plastic bag; it came from a clay oven that took hours to heat and dough that was kneaded at dawn. Dinner might begin months earlier, with tending the land and planting seeds. If the rains came and the sun held steady, a meal would eventually grow. Everything had its season. Nothing could be rushed, and every bite was cherished.
