Clockwork Orange

This past weekend, I was able to enjoy the agricultural bounty of Southern California, as I was invited by my mother to help her pick ripened navel oranges from her backyard citrus tree.

Armed with a used brown paper grocery bag, I went to work.

Perched upon a metal ladder, I peered over the leafy curtain of branches and craned my elbows and fingers to snap the gleaming oranges off of the citrus tree. I worked assidiously and methodically: picking, grabbing, pulling, twisting, and piling.

The oranges were voluptuous and rotund. As I worked, I marveled at their curled and narled navels and laughed amusingly at their unsightly blemishes, pock marks, and dimpled rinds.

After a few hours of work, I sat down on lowest rung of the ladder to rest. My hands were shorn of my working gloves, and with an orange in my left hand, I slipped my pointed finger through the rind and was greeted an almost-effervescent mist of citrus vapor spraying into the air.

One bite of a succulent citrus segment, and sugary juices burst forth into my eager mouth. I could feel the delicate, thin-membraned, caviar-like citrus beads on my discerning tongue.

As I enjoyed my light refreshment, I came to a simple, yet satisfying epiphany: "Yum."