Today I sit pondering the juicy sweet flesh of a grapefruit.
The juice dribbles down my chin and in between my fingers, leaving a sticky sweet film of golden nectar.
I eat the fruit determinedly, if not quite ravenously. I concentrate on each pocket of flesh, methodically carving out spoonfuls. Every bite is pure pleasure.
Again. And again.
Nearing the end of the first half, I feel the first stab of regret. It will be gone soon, and I’ll be left with a fading memory. A poor substitute at best, but better than never having experienced the joy at all.
Grapefruit is not so unlike pistachios, I reflect. It’s the effort you put into eating them that make them so heavenly.
Have you ever eaten a handful of shelled pistachios? They are bland and dull and wholly unworthy of the chewing. Much like pre-prepared grapefruit.
The act of someone else removing the barriers subsequently removes the thrill of personal victory when each morsel finally succumbs to your valiant efforts and you taste the divine flavor of a well-earned treat.