Must be they were just riding around back there all day today, forgotten: a bag of clementines that I overlooked in my rush to get from here to there. Or wherever. My keys had fallen between the seats, and I was searching frantically when they caught my attention, finally. I just left them? I thought I unloaded everything. Forget the keys: I’m gonna have one of those right now. I spilled them all over the back seat reaching for the second one. That’s right, I ate two.
Clementines are a puzzle of interlocking pieces you only see if you focus in on them: delightful, delicious sweetness protected by a beautiful but inedible outside peel, the part we throw away. Peeling them isn’t really hard, but there is a right way and, well, other ways. I peel them the way my father taught me – all in one piece.
I always start at the top, where the stem used to be, where there is often still a hard, star-shaped reminder that there was once a branch attached. Funny, but I never think about that branch, even though it must have been there.
I hold the clementine in my right hand, cradled between my thumb and my first three fingers, no way for it to slip away and fall and get bruised. It fits perfectly there, a little heavy for its size. No wonder the branch couldn’t hold on.
I steady my left hand by pressing my finger print against the peel (not enough to leave a mark, just enough to leave a feeling), but that only works if I’m also lifting up from the bottom, essentially pushing the whole package even more securely into my hand. Foundations in place, I pierce through with the sharp edge of my left thumb, delving only deep enough to sever the peel, careful not to cut through to the fragile fruit. Remember the goal.
I gently lift the star off next, its removal opening the way for the fruit to be revealed. And that’s when it happened, the way it always happens: magic. As I broke open the hidden bonds that had formed the seemingly impenetrable barrier, cells full of oil and fragrance literally exploded from the peel. I watched as thousands of secrets, whispers, ideas, and lessons burst out, shouting: pay attention! I have something to tell you. That command came as memory often does, without thinking, traveling on an easy breath, inside my senses without effort. The smell of orange filled my car and wrapped completely around me. I closed my eyes, transported back to the chair beside my father’s own, almost expecting that when I opened them, he would be there.
But no. Just me and this fruit. I cleared my eyes and returned to my task. I turned the clementine in my right hand, gently lifting the peel away from the fruit, bit by bit, little by little so that neither got broken as I pulled them apart. Shhhhhh. They spoke to each other, as if saying goodbye, their time together successful and done. Time to move on.
If you’ve done it right, you can form the empty skin back into shape, and prop it up to make it look sort of put together. My kids think it is funny when I do that. They like to pretend to trick me into thinking that the fruit is still inside. We always laugh, even though we all know the truth. It’s our game. The peel is empty now. The sweet fruit is the focus of someone’s delight, as it hoped to be.
Keeping the peel all in one piece is not really necessary, I guess. I mean, you can rip small pieces apart and still get to the fruit. But it isn’t the way it should be done. At least that isn’t the way he taught me to do it. And, for that, I’m grateful.
Clementines are a puzzle of interlocking pieces you only see if you focus in on them: delightful, delicious sweetness protected by a beautiful but inedible outside peel, the part we throw away. Peeling them isn’t really hard, but there is a right way and, well, other ways. I peel them the way my father taught me – all in one piece.
I always start at the top, where the stem used to be, where there is often still a hard, star-shaped reminder that there was once a branch attached. Funny, but I never think about that branch, even though it must have been there.
I hold the clementine in my right hand, cradled between my thumb and my first three fingers, no way for it to slip away and fall and get bruised. It fits perfectly there, a little heavy for its size. No wonder the branch couldn’t hold on.
I steady my left hand by pressing my finger print against the peel (not enough to leave a mark, just enough to leave a feeling), but that only works if I’m also lifting up from the bottom, essentially pushing the whole package even more securely into my hand. Foundations in place, I pierce through with the sharp edge of my left thumb, delving only deep enough to sever the peel, careful not to cut through to the fragile fruit. Remember the goal.
I gently lift the star off next, its removal opening the way for the fruit to be revealed. And that’s when it happened, the way it always happens: magic. As I broke open the hidden bonds that had formed the seemingly impenetrable barrier, cells full of oil and fragrance literally exploded from the peel. I watched as thousands of secrets, whispers, ideas, and lessons burst out, shouting: pay attention! I have something to tell you. That command came as memory often does, without thinking, traveling on an easy breath, inside my senses without effort. The smell of orange filled my car and wrapped completely around me. I closed my eyes, transported back to the chair beside my father’s own, almost expecting that when I opened them, he would be there.
But no. Just me and this fruit. I cleared my eyes and returned to my task. I turned the clementine in my right hand, gently lifting the peel away from the fruit, bit by bit, little by little so that neither got broken as I pulled them apart. Shhhhhh. They spoke to each other, as if saying goodbye, their time together successful and done. Time to move on.
If you’ve done it right, you can form the empty skin back into shape, and prop it up to make it look sort of put together. My kids think it is funny when I do that. They like to pretend to trick me into thinking that the fruit is still inside. We always laugh, even though we all know the truth. It’s our game. The peel is empty now. The sweet fruit is the focus of someone’s delight, as it hoped to be.
Keeping the peel all in one piece is not really necessary, I guess. I mean, you can rip small pieces apart and still get to the fruit. But it isn’t the way it should be done. At least that isn’t the way he taught me to do it. And, for that, I’m grateful.