palace of winds

Spring, dragging its heels all through April, kicking up snow, has finally arrived. It’s been a week of skirts and rainstorms and fresh fruit, and I’ve been loving every minute.

Bryce came for the weekend and brought me a box of the season’s first cherries. I love cherries even more than bananas, more than oatmeal, and I have been in raptures over these, have sat on the floor in the middle of my dim living room eating them by the bowlful and watching the latening twilight. They should soon be available here too, and I can’t wait.

On Saturday we did a little grocery shopping, and in the produce department were lured by a strange, fascinating melon, little bigger than my fist, bright orange and spikey, from New Zealand: the kiwano. (Not to be confused with kiwanis; this fruit didn’t strike me as particularly civic-minded.) I had a bit of a tickle in the back of my mind, like I’d read about it somewhere, but then couldn’t remember if it was this spiky melon or the starfruit, which I’d also never had, and further couldn’t remember if I’d read about it being delicious or disgusting. I’m glad I didn’t recall reading about Susan’s experience, though, because if I had I don’t think we would’ve spent the $2.99 on it, and after hours of entertainment we agreed it was well worth it, if only just the once.

Cutting into it, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I imagined it would be a little like a cantaloupe: the rind encasing a layer of fruit, with a center of seeds to be scooped out. What we found instead was a bright green mass of little gelatinous pockets, each containing a pale seed. I considered it for a moment, and then we turned to the internet (via Bryce’s Treo, since I don’t have the internet at home — and I know, I know, how do I survive? who tells me how to eat my fruit?). WikiHow to the rescue: you give the fruit a bit of a squeeze, pluck out one of the little fruit-globes (more appetizing than ’sac’, I think), trap it behind your lips but in front of your teeth, then suck it in through your teeth, getting the fruit but leaving the seed. Spit out the seed and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Squeezing a kiwano is hilarious: it looks like an alien lifeform, all pulsing breathing little fruit-pods bulging and retreating. It will provide you as much entertainment as you want, because the thing takes forever to eat. Hours, literally. My jaw ached when I finally gave up on finishing my half. The taste? It reminded me faintly of a kiwi. If you like kiwi and are looking for that taste, don’t buy this fruit: buy a kiwi. This fruit is like a whisper of a kiwi, like a kiwi after a long intergalactic game of telephone tag; like a kiwi might be in a thousand years, just pre-apocalypse, when all sweet bright tart strong has gone from the world. It’s not bad — it’s just not particularly good. Fun, yes. Tasty, not so much. (We read some other reviews calling it bitter, which we didn’t find at all. It’s a little sweet, and it’s good at first, the okay taste bolstered by the novelty of eating it. That novelty, though, wears off after the first forty-five minutes.) I played with the flexible rind and the seed-goo for a good ten or fifteen minutes after I’d declared myself done eating. If you do get a kiwano, make sure you stay for that encore; we all have at least a bit of seven-year-old inside, so indulge.

Incidentally, any New Zealanders (or anyone, for that matter) have any insight on this fruit? Does anyone really eat these things?

Monday was gorgeous, and I stayed out at the stable for hours. After riding I tortured Ev with a very long bath, scrubbing all the little mud-dreds out of his feathers and picking the tangles from his tail. He was gorgeous when I left, silky-smooth and shining and smelling faintly of mint and rosemary (I’m using up the last of a bottle of my own shampoo on him). Tuesday afternoon it rained and rained, and when I got to the barn he was wet and gritty with mud. So much for the spa treatment.

When I got back to my apartment building I took a detour down the first floor hallway to fetch the mail, and along the way passed three young women sitting with a weensy newborn. (There seems to be a lot of loitering at my new apartment. In the afternoons there are always kids meandering around the parking lot or sitting in the stairwells or triking the sidewalks, off in their weird kid worlds. Yesterday I overheard one calling another her “homeskillet bighead biscuit.” I’ve never heard of such a thing before, and couldn’t quite figure out if it was name-calling or a term of endearment.) Anyhow, as I was just about to round the corner away from the little cluster, one of them looked up and said, “Oh! Do you race horses?!” And, I will admit, I love these little moments, these rare times when someone at the gas station or supermarket recognizes the boots, half-chaps, breeches, and strikes up a conversation. I do my patter about eventing, about Everett; and last night, yes, I pulled out the old cell phone and flipped it open to show off Himself. And explain that no, I don’t race him.

A few weeks ago S. and I, lamenting the weather, talked about moving somewhere warmer. Not seriously, but the thought crosses my mind from time to time. And today, Anjali posted about her scooter. Oh how I wish we had the weather to justify a scooter. Alas, summer isn’t even here yet and it already feels like it’s slipping out the door.