I want to talk about Blood Oranges.
To describe emotions, a sense of place – a frustration with the signals and messages thrust our way.
Blood Oranges are great. They truly are the only fruit.
They lift me up. Enthral me. Send me to places – like Café Sicillia in Noto, Sicily. To a Netflix episode of the Chef’s Table, about the very same place.
I eat them whole. In segments. In drinks. Even in salads with olives and fennel.
They creep in to the shops just after Christmas. Appearing earlier and earlier each year, it would seem. This is a bad thing. Worse still, if you question the distance and the people involved. How much will they be when we are out, out? Should we be eating them at all?
They are seasonal. Just not our seasonal.
It’s about this time that a friend re-tags me in to a picture deriding the cost of them in that there London. In the markets where everything is a premium. Not in the plastic, meshed bags of the supermarkets I rely on.
They are picked, transported and – because I buy too many – saved by the 5pm Negroni I might enjoy on a Sunday night. Just like last night.
I wish I was there when they were harvested. On that island. Near that cafe.
Then they will be gone. For that’s what happens with seasonal produce. It never lasts. Which is definitely a good thing. Makes you appreciate it more.
Maybe I will get down to Gelupo or Grom near Piccadilly Circus in London, for a gelato or sorbet before it is too late. I doubt I will get back out to Sicily for a while. Let’s aim for the while after that.
When we can eat brioche and granita for breakfast. Like we did when we all smiled so wide.