Ah, the sweet juiciness of Ruby Reds. Every year begins this way.
This year I have come to the conclusion that picking grapefruits appeals to my sense of order (or call that OCD, whatever). So many directions to take. Do I pick them randomly? Should I start on one branch and feel that sense of accomplishment as those lovely spots of orange-y yellow ocher disappear. I can start at the top and work my way down. Those fat clean ones at the top call to me. Oh, the glory of being a farmer. Even the imaginings of a migrant worker putting in a hard day work.
Tree parts threatened to pop an eye out as they projected themselves at me as I plucked its parts. Some of the fruit did not want to leave their home in the sunshine and shady parts. A grapefruit that lands on your head hurts, period.
(Say the following sentence in a Brooklyn accent with a Yiddish flare, drama on the branch)
From one branch, I have a bag of grapefruit.
Tomorrow there will be more branches of fruity goodness. There are a lot of branches on this tree. It's 23 years old. It's been said that your brain isn't really formed until you are 25. I think this tree knows way more than me.
My new career will not involve farming or traveling to groves to earn my keep.