When I was debating whether or not I would accept Notre Dame's offer of admission in April, I made a chart- a real one, using the chart feature in Text Edit- of the pros and cons of attending this large, Jesusy haven in South Bend, Indiana. Among other cons, like abominable weather and crucifixes mounted over doorways in every classroom, was bad fruits. BAD FRUITS. I gave this drawback considerable weight.
Like sushi in Las Vegas, fruit in January, in Indiana, has a history. If a mango was not a mango but was instead Jack Kerouac, its tale would be spirited and eclectic. Long hours on the open road, a bottle of whiskey and legs dangling off the back of a flat bed truck. It's romantic. But mangos don't have legs or whiskey. I imagine the suffering crates, striations of fruit and indigo cardboard rumbling over potholes in the cold. By the time it reaches the shelves in Ralph's or whatever, it costs fourteen dollars. Like a farm animal auctioned off at a high price, having proven its resilience.
I don't mean to sound like a produce elitist, but Southern California spoils a person. I stood in front of the blueberry display agog this afternoon, checking and rechecking the alleged price, then the alleged blueberries. Then I stacked three cartons into my basket, happy to part with fewer dollars in exchange. I also ducked impulsively out of line on my way to the checkout, and scooped up eleven peaches for $2.41. There is always a sense of great bounty. I guess as long as I keep savoring that experience in supermarkets, I haven't become too spoiled.
P.S. Buy Organic.
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