Rethinking the orange

The people who know about such things say that we make, in a single day, gazillions* of decisions. And that's before we get out of bed.

But with most things, we have to decide whether the time and effort we put into something is worth it. Like growing and harvesting your own tiny cherry tomatoes in a container, which entails planting, watering, fertilizing, fretting, moving the container into the sun, moving it out of the sun, chasing away pests, begging the plants to grow, praying for them to grow, threatening to tear them up, vowing to never ever grow anything again. And this is just the first week. Or, you can buy tomatoes from someone else who has done these things, leaving you free to, say, make the decision to stay in bed a little longer each morning.

Or cooking. There is planning, shopping, choosing, chopping, sautéing, turning, burning, scraping off the burnt parts, chasing away bugs, chasing away impatient eaters, seasoning, plating, serving, cleaning up. All that, and then the food is consumed in three minutes flat, if the eaters are in my family.

Or folding your underwear before putting them in the drawer. Or, for some people, even putting them in a drawer. (The Hero is sometimes consumed with inventing a system whereby we just get our clothes from the dryer as we need them, bypassing drawers and hampers and laundry baskets altogether.)

And then there is eating. Some foods are just too much work. A college roommate refused to eat seafood that needed to be shelled first. Of course in college we could rarely afford seafood, so this stand was more of a principle thing. But still.

A colleague and I discovered that neither of eats oranges because, although we like oranges, they obviously do not like to be eaten. If they did, they would make it a lot easier for us. The peel, for example, cannot easily be coaxed away. You must gouge it with your fingernails, repeatedly, and the orange, not unreasonably, fights back. Hard. You are likely to be left with juice, pulp, and other vital orange innards all over your hands, face, and clothes. The orange has nothing to lose by attacking you. And attack it will. You will find yourself in need of one of those disaster cleanup outfits to come in and scrub away the signs of massacre.

Even a grapefruit is preferable, opening-wise, to an orange. Yes, a grapefruit is work.  But all the work can be done with a tool, and does not require you to disfigure your flesh in the opening and cutting of it. Neither is there usually a need to call in Disaster Recovery.

I sincerely hope that our next president will give this issue the attention it deserves. For starters, oranges need either a) an edible peeling, such as the eminently sensible apple, pear, or grape, or b) one of those peelings that whips off in four easy steps, like the banana. And once THAT’S settled, maybe we can turn our attention to kohlrabi, which has to be peeled not once but TWICE.

Disaster Relief cannot come too soon.

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*This is a highly scientific fact.

Tough love for plants

“LIVE PLANTS” the package on our doorstep declared. It seemed a stretch to characterize the straggly things inside the package as live, hovering as they did somewhere between living and dead (“divving”). Our job was to nudge them toward the former.

The Hero was incredulous. “They ship plants through the MAIL?” This seemed akin to mailing a small pet (“LIVE CHIHUAHUA. LIVE PYGMY GOAT”).

I was more concerned that LIVE PLANTS might be code for LIVE BUGS, and I prepared myself for sudden movement when I opened the package. Sure enough, a shower of green popcorn packing pieces tumbled out and immediately made off, no two pieces going in the same direction. When no bugs emerged, I took out the plant and unfolded it, somewhat like our artificial Christmas tree.

And then I unfolded the sheet of instructions.

Any hopes we may have harbored about raising seedlings to maturity were severely curtailed by the instruction sheet. There was an entire page of warnings, which basically boiled down to “Do not think that you will succeed in rearing these wimpy seedlings into healthy, thriving plants without basically giving up the rest of whatever it is you spend your time on. And even then, well...”

I read the instruction sheet to the Hero. This took the better part of May, by which time the plants—still in their shipped containers—were beginning to  resemble a compost heap. (Note to grower: To avoid this delay, you really need to say, “Plant and water seedlings first, then read and follow the entire instructions, even though it may mean you redo everything you did.”)

The instructions read, in part,* “Transplanting from indoors to out is a profound shock to a plant. ‘Harden them off’ by progressively introducing them to the outside world. Place in a sheltered location for a few hours each day over 10 to 14 days. This slows their growth and toughens them up”—here the Hero snorted—” and allows for a more mild and controlled transplant shock.” The instructions went on with strict directions for watering and fertilizing (don't even THINK about the latter) during the hardening-off process, bringing the plant indoors overnight during that time, and otherwise making their life as comfortable as possible before basically throwing them to the wolves. Or squirrels.

“Those aren't instructions for growing a plant,“ the Hero said. “They’re for raising a kid.”

And I hadn't even gotten to the part where they recommended restricting visitors and excess noise, keeping strict bedtimes, providing a special blanket for comfort, keeping a nightlight on, etc.

It occurred to me that it is a little reckless of growers to send out these plants to people whom they have no idea are trustworthy or not. What if I lock the plants in the basement where they never see the light of day? What if I don't talk to them, or sing? What if I DO sing to them?

At the very least, the grower could make me take an oath to cherish and nourish the plants until harvest and eating do us part.

In fact I did sing to the plants, driven to this desperate measure by the complete failure of the sun to appear for several days after the plants’ arrival. Seeing their discouraged appearance and fearing they might return to the earth whence they came before I could hasten that process by neglect or overattention (I favor both roughly equally), I belted out “The sun’ll come out tomorrow…”

“You're singing to tomatoes,” the Hero observed, in a voice that indicated this might be something he should bring to a doctor’s attention.

“Well, look how droopy they are,” I said. “They need sun.”

“Hey, I feel droopy too with no sun.”

So I sang to the Hero too. At least he brightened up, even if the plants did not.

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*a very small part