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The other day I plucked the very first Royal (Blenheim) apricot from my tree. Unlike fruit even in the best farmers' market, it was unbruised. I could smell the sweet tangy aroma as I lifted it to my mouth. I should have waited. I should have brought it inside and cut slivers from it and consumed them as if they were the Host. But I hadn't had dinner yet and was famished. That scent was too much.

In my head, I know I picked it a little too soon. It was a little *too* firm. And though I prefer tangy apricots to sub-acid ones, it had just a bit too much bite. But you couldn't tell my heart that. There is something special about something you grew yourself. Something you nurtured from its infancy into tempting flirtatious maturity. You may have tasted better once at Frog Hollow Farms' booth at the farmers' market. Or maybe that tree that grew in the easement that ran through your childhood neighborhood. But no! None of them could surpass this apricot, this supernal exemplar of all things Prunus armeniaca, child of your labor, boon of your backyard hamadryads. Feeling its sun-warmed flannel skin in my palm, smelling its paradisical scent, I dined on it with all the finesse of a lycanthrope at harvest moon.

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spidra

September 2014

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