Saturday, December 19, 2009

Orange You Glad I Didn't Say...

The pile grows taller. My fingers become stickier. The air smells distinctly of citrus. Two beautiful dry-farmed clementines sit staring at me next to the skins of their brethren. Their perfume is delicate, but clear. The orange peel of the clementine is so rich, deep. The bright skin looks like it smells. The ease with which they peel makes me feel vaguely more dexterous and potent than I am. They are gone, destroyed, vanquished.  The pile of carcasses on the table dwarfs the remote.

Just as the local, fresh apples disappear, the citrus surprisingly emerges. As a New Englander originally, the local citrus season is a pre-Christmas gift, a bonus. It is nature saying, "hey, since you made it through the mild, possibly wet, occasionally beautiful Northern California Fall, here is a most wondrous gift".

These little gems come from the Olsens, who dry farm this citrus and some avos in the Sierra Foothills. Now the Olsens have real farming cred. They are serious folks. I was not really on a personal level with the patriarch or his son. But my friend Thomas was referring to the son as a legit farmer, the real deal, and referred to him by the name, "Kenny". Now Thomas is Swiss and maybe something got lost in translation, but.. So I ask the son for five pounds of clementines and refer to him as "Kenny". He immediately corrects me. "Oh no", he says, "I am not Kenny." Without making me feel slightly awkward for calling him the wrong name, he says, "No. I'm Kevin. Kenny. He's dead."

Like the straight forward guys these are, the next Sunday, Kevin greeted me warmly and gladly sold me another bag of beautiful clementines. I have not started on the navel oranges yet, but thankfully it looks like I will get the chance.

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