Lately I've been eating oranges—lots of them. Upon returning from the supermarket I never know where to put them all; they always overflow their designated areas. It is not unusual to find an errant orange beside my pillow or on my bed stand. I've seen one as far as my studio, eyeing me from its lodging in a tin can. I might need to build an orange hutch by year's end.
What with my chronic unemployment, sometimes I know my best friend is not the peach, pear, or plum. Nay, it is the orange (and the stealthy ice cream sandwich). They never let me down, even when their graces are slackened by an overly extended purgatory in a less than fabulous refrigerator.
You might be wondering why I love oranges. It might be because they were aplenty in Morocco. But I can't be sure. That oranges fulfill a powerful function in my daily life is enshrouded in mystery. Unlike any attempted description of God, Who can only be circumscribed in things he is not, an orange's power can only be touted as it is, as an orange-colored spherical entity.
Firstly, I love the rind and how it comes off the flesh like a bunny's hide. I love how nature has presupposed the orange eater, mostly human, likes things pre-sliced. It's like Trader Joe had a say in their making.
Ripping apart an orange creates a bitter spray. I don't recommend putting it in your eyes. Sometimes the object of love hurts you in return. Like the snake charmer and his spitting cobra, you can befriend the orange. By eating it, you both become one, just as the horn thingy makes the snake dance to the pleasure of fanny-packed tourists.
If only the orange could talk. What might it say? Sweet, a tad bitter, and stripped nude, the orange can only say one thing: yes.
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