- #AUNTIE ANGEL GRAPEFRUIT METHOD CRACKED#
- #AUNTIE ANGEL GRAPEFRUIT METHOD SKIN#
- #AUNTIE ANGEL GRAPEFRUIT METHOD PLUS#
In more formal households, grapefruit halves were carefully prepared: a cook or housewife would slide a sharp knife along the inner walls of the triangular cells, severing the flesh so it could be scooped out.
#AUNTIE ANGEL GRAPEFRUIT METHOD CRACKED#
My great-grandfather reportedly started each day by drinking a raw egg cracked into a glass of grapefruit juice. Hence the grapefruit’s botanical name, evoking the pleasures of a lost Eden: Citrus paradisi.įor years I thought of grapefruit as a food for older people. To add to the confusion, the novel crossbreed was often mistaken for the Forbidden Fruit, another large citrus, now extinct. John Lunan, a seventeenth century magistrate in Jamaica, wrote that the fruit was so called “on account of its resemblance in flavor to the grape,” referring to the sour sea grape, which grew on local beaches. Some say the name grapefruit arose because the fruit grows in clusters. This horticultural assignation produced a new hybrid. All along, it had been visiting the pummelo plants. sinensis, was floating in the tropical air. The colonists, however, believed their project was succeeding, since they were producing large citrus fruits - pummelos, as far as they knew. It cannot be fertilized by its own pollen. They did not know that the pummelo, Citrus grandis or Citrus maxima, is near impossible to propagate from seed.
As the story goes, in the seventeenth century, English colonists in Barbados acquired pummelo seeds and began to cultivate them. “I always think that people who say they like it are faking it,” a friend tells me, referring to grapefruit and nothing else. Its pleasures are half-hearted, awkward, incomplete. A new hunger comes, or the old hunger returns. Something hangs out of reach (an apple) or hides coyly amid leaves (a blackberry) it swells as it ripens until it can wait no longer it is plucked and eaten, giving pleasure and satisfaction. There is also an experiential logic to the sex metaphor. Botanically speaking, a fruit is the ripened ovary of a plant. Beyond Eve’s apple, there are endless references in art and literature, from the pomegranate in Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Proserpine and the post-coital slice of watermelon Gurov callously eats in Chekhov’s “The Lady with the Dog” to the cherry stem Audrey Horne (Sherilynn Fenn) ties with her tongue in Twin Peaks. Since the writing of Genesis, if not before, fruit has stood for sex. Still, each time I glance over the heaps of fresh fruit in the produce aisle, I want grapefruit. A lemon announces straightaway what it will do to you. I think I would rather eat a lemon: bright, sunny, and unabashedly tart. At the back of my tongue, nearly down my throat, it makes itself at home. My mouth twitches towards puckering even as I want more of that sugared edge. Then a faint honeyed flavor arrives and everything is better than expected, until a sour note cuts in. I was wary of the sharp taste, but what a relief, it’s like water. But when the fruit is open, I receive its color with delight, as if it were an unexpected gift. I should know what the inside will look like, since red and pink varietals have thoroughly displaced the white- or yellow-fleshed ones in most supermarkets.
The interior is the color of a coral reef, or a sun-bleached terracotta floor, or the pink cough drops my mother gave me when I was a child and which I craved even when I was not sick, or raw chicken, or a tongue, or quince paste sliced very thin and eaten with white cheese, from a clean plate, in a sunny garden. I wrest the fruit apart to catch the scent of the flesh itself: bracing and soothing, astringent and floral. At once fresh and dank, it makes me promises woody, delicate, and nearly fungal, it hints at sharper, sweeter things to come.
#AUNTIE ANGEL GRAPEFRUIT METHOD SKIN#
I expect any fruit to denude itself in my hands at the slightest effort, like an eager lover or an EZ-peel clementine.īut when I break the skin of a grapefruit, the pith launches its smell at me. I am an American born in the nineteen-eighties I was raised in a place and time that had subordinated all other values to blithe consumption. A large knife would do the trick, but I don’t believe fruit should require butchery. I suppose any fruit that can mimic human skin has the right to resist my fingers as they try to reach its flesh.
#AUNTIE ANGEL GRAPEFRUIT METHOD PLUS#
A friend of mine once used them to practice tattooing: the leathery skin can stand up to the action of the gun, it turns out, plus it holds ink well enough and provides a sizable canvas.
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