Maybe when it comes to dessert, we should just...try less.
Summer wasseason. He’d bring them home by the crate, and closely watch them ripen during the week. With a paring knife, he’d slice off the skin, cut a checkered pattern into each cheek, and then slide the cut pieces into a bowl, handing either my sister or me the seed so we could suck on the excess flesh.
When I was living in my first apartment in New York, fruit was an expense that fell by the wayside. On my 12 dollar an hour internship salary, the best I could do for dinner was scrambled eggs with spinach, or pasta with jarred tomato sauce. The only fruit I consumed were 19 cent bananas from Trader Joe’s.
It helped when I moved next to a farmers’ market, where I could literally see what fruit was available from my window. I decided I would allow myself to splurge on a pound or so of one good-looking variety of fruit a week, whether it was a pack of candy-like strawberries, or ripe peaches, or a squishy, tart apricot. I found myself following a similar ritual to my dad. When dinner was wrapping up, I would take out the fruit, and cut it into bite-sized pieces.
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