Writing Exercise: 9/16/2007

The very first time I ever had fresh pineapple, sliced open right there in front of me was on a fishing boat miles off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. I was deep-sea fishing with my family and our fishing guide, as we took a break from the strenuous task of watching our poles, explained to us that sharing pineapple with someone is a sign of friendship. After that first taste of pineapple however, I realized that friendship couldn’t even begin to describe the feelings I had toward this man for introducing me to the fruit as it is meant to be. Up until that moment, I’d been happy to eat the fruit as it was after swimming for hours, days, weeks in simple syrup and juice, after being canned or air-vacked into little lunch-sized fruitcups, crushed, chunked, in rings or slices. But in that moment a new day began.

Our guide offered me a large chunk of pineapple, deep golden yellow against the azure sky and the cerulean water. I took a bite from a large chunk of ripe fruit and the piece came off easily in my mouth, heavy and sweet. It was a tantalizing combination of textures, soft and firm, to roll around with my tongue, press against the roof of my mouth, juices trickling down my throat. The juice was effervescent like Champagne as I swallowed. The sweet smell of the tropics invaded my senses like the cologne of my high school crush, and the juice from the large piece I was holding began to drip down my hand, as if reminding me it was there, waiting for it’s turn to be savored.