I have an odd relationship with fruit. For a while, we tried to make it work. People kept telling us we’d be good for each other. Maybe they were right. But being together always felt like a chore, something we did because we were expected to, neither of us much enjoying the experience.
I was mostly scared I’d disappoint my grandmother, who was herself deeply in love with fruit. About the only time we saw cracks in her composed and serene demeanor is when she’d look on with mystification as my brother and I failed to appreciate the beauty and goodness of cantaloupe, blueberries, and watermelon. Occasionally, she’d dress up the strawberries in shortcake and whipped cream. We tolerated their presence but silently agreed that this made fruit merely palatable, not desirable.
To me, fruit always seemed bland at best, its volume to taste ratio on par with a shoebox. A new shoebox at that, not even one that had picked up flavorful notes from well-aged bric-a-brac. Our relationship wasn’t good for the fruit either. It often ended up spit behind the bushes, in the garbage, or quickly into a napkin. In short, both of us felt we could do a lot better, and we reached an unspoken agreement to avoid eye contact.
I was thus well into my fourth decade when I discovered that fruit could, on the right occasion and in the right setting, be intensely pleasurable. Predictably, it started around the holidays, when our moods and experiences feel different to us, though not necessarily better.
I used to wonder why someone would make apple pie as opposed to, say, Derby Pie. Granted, I’m from Louisville, Kentucky, where we use any event as an excuse to bake one. Attend a graduation, dinner, birthday, or college basketball watch party and you’re more likely than not to be offered a slice of Derby Pie.
I still like Derby Pie, but as I get older I find them fairly saccharine. Now that I think about it, Derby Pies neatly conform to the whole Kentucky Derby aesthetic. Forced sentimentality over largely imagined nobility, simplicity masquerading as taste, collectively willing ignorance of harmful side effects. Or maybe my body just doesn’t process glucose as well as it used to.
If you’re like I used to be — convinced you wouldn’t be turned on by gooey globs of sugary apple surrounded by flaky, buttery pastry — I encourage you to become more gastronomically adventurous. My holiday hookup with apple pie was truly spectacular, and I savored every moment. Sure, I added some whipped cream, but to complement the flavor rather than mask it.
After the giddy afterglow wore off, I wondered if this was a one-serving stand or if we might find ourselves reaching for each other more often, not just on hungry holiday nights. I had my doubts though. Apple pie isn’t exactly a bowl of fruit salad.
To my surprise, fruit and I slowly started to overcome our mutual suspicion, and we eventually found more arrangements that worked for us. First, frozen blueberries (small ones are better) in greek yogurt. Then, silky smoothies of pureed strawberries, bananas, blackberries, and even a good-sized portion of spinach, whose taste is masked by its produce-section neighbors. Our recent experiment with fresh hot compote has proven to be our best, and messiest, liaison to date.
Fruit and I are eager to find more opportunities to satisfy each other. We’re more mature now, though, and we understand that you can’t force these things. So, we keep an eye out and remain open to the possibility that the moment might capture each of us at the same time. And we’re curious what else is out there. Maybe we’re trying to have it all; to be healthier and feel better about ourselves while indulging in the paroxysms of pleasure we’ve discovered. This might be foolish, but we’re going for it.
So, please, if you’re also fruit curious, contact us or let us know in the comments what combinations you’ve found deeply satisfying. And please consider becoming a Scooper. Can we all get healthier and find some measure of joy — even elation — while doing so? It’s worth a shot.
