Grapefruit

Of all the things I miss about Texas, the one I pine for most is round and pink, fleshy and full of juice.

I grew up in California, where grapefruit was the white, bitter cousin of the much more highly regarded orange. I was raised to eat it the way my mother presented it to me: sliced in half, the sections cut with a special grapefruit knife, before piling a large mound of powdered sugar on top. I always said I loved the grapefruit, but I was 7. We all know I was diggin’ the sweet white powder, not the tart vehicle of Vitamin C.

When I moved to Texas in my late thirties, my then father-in-law introduced me to a form of citrus known in the Lone Star State as Ruby. Ruby Red. I was instantly enamored with this luscious and superior relative of Valencia and Navel. The color of salmon, of hibiscus flowers, of the winter sunrise on the Gulf of Mexico, of all things pink and glorious and succulent… this was what fruit was meant to taste like! And she was tangy, cheap, locally available practically all the year round!

I had no idea how much I’d yearn for her when I moved away. It turns out South Carolina (and maybe the rest of America) has access to Texas Ruby Red seasonally, about as often as we get Beaujolais Nouveau imported from France. (Yes. She’s that fine.) Luckily, Paul is as captivated by the lovely, candy-sweet girl as I am, so he can be counted on to locate the first glorious pallet that arrives in our grocery store in December. We gorge ourselves, sometimes twice a day, not bothering with fancy knives or powdered sugar. We just hack that grapefruit into quarters, stand over the sink, and rip the flesh out of the skin with our teeth. We’re like Sabertooth tigers with blood-red juice running down our chins and necks, slurping and tearing and gulping. At $3.99 for 10 pounds, we can afford to be gluttons.