In Praise of Pluots and Other Sins--revisited

 This was published in September, 2009. I just had one for lunch and decided to republish it. They STILL drip down my chin and make me smile.
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I just ate a pluot and I don't care if it's not green of me. I do not care if they are a cross breed conceived in the furthest point of Australia, flown by six jets and trucked by an eighteen-wheeler cross country to get to my highly air-conditioned energy guzzling super store.

I tell you I don't care. I just ate a pluot and the juice dripped down my chin and onto my forearms. I had to eat it over the sink and I savored every wonderful slurpy, sensual, sweet, magnificent bite. My arms are sticky and I do not care to wash off the scent. It isn't pretty, this product of someone's fertile mind. Whoever invented the pluot knows about eating ripe peaches. Whoever conceived that the best of a plum and an apricot would create this speckled gem knew something of the goopy, marvelous mess of unbridled sex.

I just ate a pluot and my day got sunny.

I did. I ate a crossbreed, a fake fruit. I don't know whether or not it's organic. I don't know now whether they grow on their own. Under the spreading pluot tree, the couple...

Never mind. They waited, forgetting their passion, praying the fruit would drop.

Pluots are like the juiciest red plum you ever let ripen on your window sill... with a kick.

Sometimes I really don't care what happened to whom in my past, or did what to me; and I really do not care whether tomorrow I get up and fall down. Sometimes I just have to savor the moment with abandon.

I just ate a pluot. Even the name's a kick. May your weekends hold moments like this.