martedì, ottobre 24, 2006
Here comes that fruity feeling
Well, thank sweet strawberry jissom for small mercies. My job may make me want to burn things, my future may look like a foggy labyrinth and some of my friends are in the midst of physical or emotional breakdowns, but at least it's persimmon season again. Or at least the season to start importing persimmon.
Makes me want to move to a place with fresh tropical-type fruit all year around – I love fruit, but don't do well with the sort of fruit that can be grown in cool temperate climates like here or Northern Europe – apples, pears, peaches, and plums make me pukey if they're not cooked. Sort of. Some persimmons do and some persimmons don't, too. The long ones make me pukey, as do some of the short ones, but then the others I can eat until there aren't any more in reach. Plums are weird too. An ex had some on his organic farm in Switzerland; the dark ones I ate like a dirty pig, the yellow ones made me puke, and generally speaking they always make me puke so maybe it was just that one tree of his.
Things get better in Southern Italy. I can eat almost all the fruit there besides the figs and cherries – the citrus, the prickly pear, the pomegranate, the weird orange squishy things that were like persimmon except they exploded wetly when you touched them, making them the sort of food you need to eat with your face. And yes, it's as much like oral sex as it sounds – except the person eating is the one who feels all the pleasure. No fucking clue what they're called but they're on heaven's menu. Maybe they were persimmons too, but ripe, and therefore nothing like the ones we get here.
And then once you get to actual tropical imports, it's all good. No problems there at all. So somehow, a Cawasprian bitch living in Canada has ended up with a tropical tummy. One of God's own jokes, and a rather naughty one to play on an exemplar of his creatures who best likes stuffing her face. I think I need to move somewhere balmy.
Spat by Mistress La Spliffe at 04:41