A simple Valencia orange, unwaxed, with mottled yellow skin, moled with brown, when cut into revealed the most juicy, succulent flesh. With a glistening sharp knife I imagine to be a dagger, I pierce the skin and quickly sliced it into seven wedges and shoved each piece into my mouth in quick succession, ripping the flesh from the pith, spitting the pips ferociously onto the little green plate, and sucking down the sweet juice. A red Moroccan bowl on the kitchen counter holds seven more orange, each a little shrivelled, but now I know the secret. I am staring at the bowl longingly, trying to clear the fog from my mind. I can smell the zest on my fingers and can feel little bits of flesh in my teeth, reminding me that today, in the deepest of hollow moods, that little round orange saved me.
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Wednesday, July 11, 2018
An Orange
An orange (9.14.04)
A simple Valencia orange, unwaxed, with mottled yellow skin, moled with brown, when cut into revealed the most juicy, succulent flesh. With a glistening sharp knife I imagine to be a dagger, I pierce the skin and quickly sliced it into seven wedges and shoved each piece into my mouth in quick succession, ripping the flesh from the pith, spitting the pips ferociously onto the little green plate, and sucking down the sweet juice. A red Moroccan bowl on the kitchen counter holds seven more orange, each a little shrivelled, but now I know the secret. I am staring at the bowl longingly, trying to clear the fog from my mind. I can smell the zest on my fingers and can feel little bits of flesh in my teeth, reminding me that today, in the deepest of hollow moods, that little round orange saved me.
A simple Valencia orange, unwaxed, with mottled yellow skin, moled with brown, when cut into revealed the most juicy, succulent flesh. With a glistening sharp knife I imagine to be a dagger, I pierce the skin and quickly sliced it into seven wedges and shoved each piece into my mouth in quick succession, ripping the flesh from the pith, spitting the pips ferociously onto the little green plate, and sucking down the sweet juice. A red Moroccan bowl on the kitchen counter holds seven more orange, each a little shrivelled, but now I know the secret. I am staring at the bowl longingly, trying to clear the fog from my mind. I can smell the zest on my fingers and can feel little bits of flesh in my teeth, reminding me that today, in the deepest of hollow moods, that little round orange saved me.
Thank goodness for the oranges of yesteryear and today.
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