ORANGE AS A BIRTHDAY TREAT
Ellie Zimmerman + Dio CramerI bite into a knifed-out wedge of a Cara Cara orange, the pink kind bred for less acidity. The juice rockets out of its cells, some landing in my mouth and some down my chin, on my hands, dripping to my wrists. It is a summertime sensation, this dripping. It reminds me of ripeness and fullness and light. But here it is dark, far from this orange’s California home. Here it is quiet and monochrome white. It smells like snow and now citrus. It’s my birthday. The day is special but the orange is not. I do this every day, the knife in orange, orange in mouth, juice dribbling shamelessly routine.
My high school math teacher, a quietly terrifying Polish woman, told our class once about her childhood Christmas tradition. She and her brother would each receive one orange in their stockings. After tearing the peels off in ecstasy, they wagered a contest to see who could make their orange last longer. Always the more patient, disciplined older sister, she usually won, triumphant in her ability to savor the fruit. But she couldn’t hold onto it forever, and as the last sweetness faded, so did that year’s Christmas, and began the long wait for another moment of citrus joy.
I wonder what other sweetness she found during those long winter nights. One day, when produce flown on refrigerated airplanes from Florida, California, or farther is a rarity, I too might have one annual orange. I’ll save it for my birthday, save up for it if I have to. I’ll peel it delicately, not wanting to damage the gift wrap. It will be a celebration every time.