When I was little, maybe six or seven, my grandpa and I had this Saturday routine. We drive 30 minutes out to the edge of the town to a little farm stand. It was nothing fancy, just a shack, a sign, and rows of baskets filled with whatever was fresh that week.I always went straight for the peaches. The farmer, Mr. . Joe, always let me pick my own from the bin, even if I would take forever choosing which was the biggest.It felt like something straight out of a story book. One weekend when we made that same d ...