It tasted pink

He ate one every Sunday morning, the comics lain spread out in front of him in their full color glory. I’d sit on his lap and we’d read together as he peeled away the pinky flesh like an orange and I’d inhale the smell of pink and newspaper print.

He’d always make a slit in the peel with a knitting needle, infuriating my mother, and make a pile of the thick husk on the classifieds. I was always mystified that the outside of the peel was so soft and pink but the inside so white and messy.

Then he’d pull it apart with his big hands and take each juicy wedge and pop it in his big mouth, citrusy liquid dotting his mustache.

It always seemed so foreign to me. So grownup.

Cereal and bananas were what I had for breakfast, not this exotic fruit that my Daddy seemed to like so much. But now? I wanted to taste some.

“Can I have one?”

“Sure, Panda.”

He separated out a small pregnant pink wedge, a little juice spurting onto my lap, and handed it to me.

I held it for a bit, touching it. The clear skin was rubbery and that just didn’t seem right. Eating rubber. Gross.

So I pulled away the skin carefully and methodically, exposing the dense city of perfectly pink little juicy tadpoles, all nestled together just waiting to rupture juice everywhere. I liked the site of it. So intricate and perfect. So much there to see and taste.

I bit into the wedge and the juice of it exploded on my tongue and dribbled down my chin. The intense tart flavor became surprisingly sweet as it worked its way back my tongue and down my throat.

With each bite, little fruity tadpoles danced around my mouth and I mercilessly captured each one and burst it with my tongue, little pops of zing.

This is what pink tastes like. It bit more than a grape. In fact, it wasn’t like a grape at all. But it wasn’t like an orange or a lemon. It was too sweet. It was something new. Something new and I liked it. 

I finished it with intense relish and let my juicy lips overtake my face with a silly grin as I licked my fingers.

“Can I have another one?”

“You like it?”

“YEAH!”

Laughter.

“Okay. Well, here’s the last one. I’ll have to buy more now.”

After that, my dad and I shared pink grapefruit every Sunday. He’d peel them for us and we’d eat as we read the paper, first the comics then we’d scour the print for typos and spelling or grammar errors as juice drippled onto the crisp pages.

Years later, I was surprised to learn most people eat grapefruit with a spoon and even sugar.

I still prefer peeling it. It tastes differently on a spoon. Not quite as pink.

 

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: This week, we'd like for you to write about your favorite fresh fruit or vegetable. Share a memory of when you first tasted it, where it came from, when you last had it, a favorite way to prepare it, and such. As you write your piece this week, think of it as writing a scene. Be sure to engage our senses, make us feel, see, taste, hear, and smell. Pull us in with your description.