I could live on fruit year round. I like it a lot and have ceased analyzing why we humans have certain quirky but unique character traits that make each one of us the bad asses that we are. For me, being passionate about eating inordinate amounts of fruit every day all year round is one of those things.
In the past I DID analyze this particular trait, so yes there’s a backstory, but that for another time and place. Aren’t you lucky?
I only bring it up as we’re heading into winter, and as a diehard and dedicated fruitarian who would live the way I was truly meant to under ideal circumstances, this is when the subject rears its head. Fruit doesn’t grow in the winter in the northern hemisphere, right? And trying to satisfy my insatiable need for it these few months is a challenge. Grocery shopping in the cold months is a much different experience than in the summer when not only are the stores stocked, but I can pick cherries and peaches and apples and pears directly from the trees, and there’s a myriad of available fresh food.
It’s now that my heart longs for Uruguay.
Well I try my best to get what’s best and muddle through. I’m not sure it’s intended for a person to be sitting around eating watermelon when the temperature falls below freezing anyway- a big hunk of salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and lots of gravy is probably more natural for this time of year- and root vegetables and canned items- that sort of thing. So in the back of my mind I often feel conflicted as to who I even am. But it’s woven into my fabric and always has been. And we know it’s an ongoing challenge to maintain a healthy balance when it comes to so much of what’s being served on this great smörgåsbord called life.
I love grapes. Light green preferred. I guess they call those white grapes. They’re the ones I favor and that’s how I drink my wine too, white. And very dry please. I’m sure I’d eat or drink anything called grape. One of nature’s many candies as they say, and why would anyone ever say anything bad about them? The other day I was wandering around the winter-doldrums produce aisle, slim pickings for sure, what with the the bagged, factory-grown, overpriced corporate greens and the hothouse, vine-perfect, blemish-free tomatoes and the faux, cloned and manufactured grapefruits and God knows where it all comes from! Not from my neck of the woods that’s for sure. Most of it has about enough taste to make me think puking in my own mouth might be a more savory experience. I mean, it’s not real food. Not REAL FOOD.
Where’s it from?
Oh, back to the grapes. Yeh so I bought some grapes. They looked beautiful in the bag, hmm, plump and juicy-the perfect complexion with nary a flaw. I salivated when I picked up and eyeballed them. I couldn’t help myself. When I got home I made a fun snack of them, picking them off the vine and mixing them up in a bag with roasted almonds. I popped one in my mouth I got nothing.
It tasted like nothing. All style and no substance evidently. And this at $3.99 a pound!
I finished the snack and went on my way. Later when it was time for my next feeding I opened the refrigerator and read on the bag:
Produit des E.U.
Raisins Verts Sans Pépins
Okay from France? In December. Isn’t it winter there too? I don’t get it. What made them travel all the way from France? I don’t speak French but “Produit des E.U.” doesn’t that mean USA? Oh, so maybe they’re from like New Orleans? A bunch of people still speak French there as far as I know. Maybe the grapes are intended for them? They don’t grow them down there now do they? I mean in the bayou? Geez Louise, what do those grapes have to go through to get from wherever they start to finally join the almonds in my mouth and wind up in my stomach? Where are they from dammit?! Isn’t this something I’m privy to? They aren’t fooling me, no way! And how do they stay so bulbous and good looking and sexy, are they injected with those scary hormones I keep reading about? Hey, what’s a guy gotta do to get some real food around here, pack up and move to Uruguay? I can pick fruit directly from the trees there can’t I?
I’d rather be in Uruguay than be here.
Last night I dreamt of summer. A local winery makes a fab Gewurtztraminer. It’s a perennial favorite and one of the nicest summer days is making the trip over there when the vineyard is at its peak. I’ve had many a memorable time enjoying their wine while kicking back on their patio relaxing and taking in the spectacular view. Where I live is God’s country, I’m telling you. And my talking about it doesn’t do it an iota of justice.
Maybe one day you’ll come.
So in the dream the day was hot and the air felt like harvest. I sat on the patio and looked out over the rolling foothills with their acres and acres of mature grapes. The workers were between the rows, busy doing their thing, moving up and down like an assembly line, picking the grapes that would wind up in my stomach. Beyond the grapes the mountains rose until they met the big blue sky. In the dream I lifted a cold glass of wine to my lips and knew everything was just about right.