Sunday, August 1, 2010
I’ve baked cream puffs and other more involved cookeries in the past, but I have never taken the flesh from a pineapple. Silly, I know, but yesterday I bought a small pineapple and decided that I would have to tackle it. I got out my big knife, and lucky for me it was sharp. I cut right through the tough skin with ease, cutting carefully the top, bottom, and all the sides, as the juices trickled down my fingers and down my hands. Not thin juices, but with just the right amount of viscosity and slipperiness.
The smell of a pineapple is an instant transport. I can imagine the warm sun and calm tides, palm trees, orange skies, sand in my toes. With each cut I make, the scent enraptures me. A large chunk slips from my hand and falls to the floor. I take a bite size piece from the bowl of pieces that I have already cut up and pop it into my mouth. I reach down and pick up the large chunk, laughing quietly at my lack of grace in tackling this beautiful fruit; I rinse it under cold water and finish my task.
How could it be that I’ve been missing out on this simple pleasure?