a love letter to grapefruit

I love grapefruit.  I rarely eat one, though there is no reason for this.  Today I found, in a bowl in the back of the frige, half of a grapefruit with its cut side down.  I scarcely remember eating the first half, but it must have been me because when I flipped the the fruit over to show its shiny pink flesh, my son’s girlfriend said, “Oh, I love everything about grapefruit except the taste.  I never eat them, but I love looking at them.” 

Oh, the taste… I take the bowl outside and, with one of those little serrated spoons that looks so delicate but can easily dismember something much tougher than citrus, I dig into the first section.  Juice bubbles up.  I pop the small triangle into my mouth and close my eyes.  No orangey sweetness here, no limey sour, just a nearly indescribable burst of citrus flavor. Perfectly balanced, sharp and mellow and strong. Neither tart nor bitter nor fully sweet, grapefruit manages to be totally satisfying without fats and without umami. I dig the spoon in for another bite and before that one has even passed my teeth, I plunge the spoon in for another and another.

What ensues is a strange grapefruit feeding frenzy, like I cannot possibly get enough into my mouth fast enough.  I remember this is my way with grapefruit – a thrice a year frenetic devouring of yellow-pink bits of pulp.  These individual juicy packets, no larger than a grain of rice, are known botanically as vessicles.  Each one pops as it bursts between my teeth. Twelve times my sharp spoon excavates each section.  Twelve times the juicy triangle balances for a second on my tongue before my teeth chomp down.  Twelve more times the spoon scrapes around again to loosen every possible morsel before I mash the two sides together to squeeze any remaining juice into the bowl. 

Then, I tip the final drops into my mouth, sit back, and sigh.