The water in the bowl had gone the color of weak tea, and my mother was only halfway down the pile.
A chestnut has to be peeled twice. The shell comes off with a knife — hard work, the blade slipping more than once. Underneath there is a second skin, thin, gripping the nut, following every fold and groove of it. That one is called 보늬, bonui.
Bonui is a nuisance. Scrape at it with a thumbnail and it stays lodged in the creases. Leave it on and the bitterness sits at the back of the tongue. So she soaked them and took them off one at a time, and a bagful of chestnuts ate the whole evening.
All summer that bitter skin had been the only thing between the nut and the insects, the nut and the dry air.
The dish filled with pale chestnuts. The newspaper filled with bonui. Under her fingernails the dark had settled in.