Tonight is the full moon. That’s pretty exciting, for me, espcially since the Solstice is coming up. I am extremely excited about the Solstice. Not, though you would be forgiven for thinking of it, because I can’t wait to run around a giant fire naked with my hippie kindred. No, I am excited about the Solstice because it means Winter is turning around. The days can only get longer from there.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love winter. I love storms, I love drinking hot chocolate, I love seeing old friends come home from college. I can’t wait for the first big hard wind and rain and power outage and wandering around in the streets.
But here’s the thing.
I love fruit.
I wanted to get an I (heart) fruit license plate, but it was taken. Because I am serious about my fruit. I love an apricot, ripe and juicy, full of the sun. I adore a firm bosc pear. I love peaches, in pies or straight. I like cherimoyas, creamy and mysterious. I love pineapple, even though it makes my lips crack. Apples, in all their sweet and tart guises. Kiwis and oranges and mangos. Love ’em.
I also like associates of the fruit world–raspberries, for example, are my favourite food on earth. I also like black and blue berries. Strawberries, when perfectly ripe and summery and delicious. Huckleberries, tart and sweet like little love notes.
And, in the winter, these foods are not realities for me. Well, if I had a great deal of money, I could buy pale hothouse imitations of their summer glory, but they wouldn’t taste right. And this saddens me. If only one could have a bowl of fresh effervescent raspberries in the middle of December, winter would be pretty much fucking perfect.