callistra | On Apricots and Fruit and Veg

Mmmm. The apricots are all gone now. I ate them. They were nice. The middle one was the best; so close to overripe that when I bit into it, sweet juice overflowed onto my naked breasts. I should really get dressed soon. :-) I sniffed the scent of it, and was astounded at the sweet complex scent, more innocent than any perfume, sweeter than any eau d'toilette, and something to drown deeply in. I sucked the juice from my hands, and licked the pip, the intense, sweetly ripe apricot flavours having very little to do with it's siren perfume. Mmmmm.

I also have nectarines, apples, bananas, and tinned plums and peaches. Yum. I had watermelon last week. The nectarines have the most colour of those that were there; rosy plum blushes, round and full, but so hard I would hurt my teeth on them. They are sitting on my bench, waiting for the fullness of time to develop their flavours, to deliver the satisfaction a small delicately hued apricot provided. So hard they are tart, the flavours hiding behind the lack of sweetness and unable to sing in glory from behind the hard flesh, resistant of yielding taste and juice to mastication. Little rocks, waiting for the coy softness of a lover; time laying a tender hand to their frigid hardness and softening the potential sweetness into glorious ambrosia. Warm, fruit provides more juice, more taste, more sweetness, for the discerning devourer.

I could probably go on... but eventually I might start blushing *grin*

Yeah, supermarkets torturing their fruit and veg. They do you know. I am sure they have little tiny torture chambers, and they put the carrots on the rack to break them from the firm crispness the farmer has worked so hard to provide, back to the limp, sad, desolate orange beings which grace our grocery aisle. Men with rubber hoses making sure that every punnet of strawberries has at least one mangled corpse, the bodies bringing in furry moulded rot which strikes even the living, whole strawberries which might be sweet. Onions, bruised and aching, piled haphazardly crying for relief. Cook me! End my misery! Please! Cucumbers, with obvious finger bruises, trying desperately to not look phallic, in the strange half light of the vegetable aisle, hiding behind the flaccid leeks selling for a gold coin. Limp, desecrated lettuce trapped in airless plastic bags, suffocated and dying, await our attention. Tomatoes, pale and adolescent, leaning against the walls of their cage, knowing there is no hope of ripeness any more, their young bodies pale and taut to be sliced and diced and dressed with others. And in the far corner, a horror catches our eyes; turning, we see the graveyard. Rows upon rows of bodies, pre-shredded, pre-chopped, pre-prepared with a sliver of butter for easy microwaving, just add the mayonnaise, just add salad dressing, just add flavour ... little corpses, sheared of their defects, lying for perusal under a harsh yellow light, for our delectation.

I head back for chips and chocolate instead.