Fruit for Christmas?
It’s not that I hate fruit. Although, I approach it with the buxom bulging, beautiful eye candy of the advanced life drawing professor selecting for still life, I still wrinkle a nose before taking a bite, and before that bite, will choose chocolate with unanimous vote, if given the choice, of course. I think that fruit is a wonder of God’s and Mother Nature’s bed pan, but I still don’t want fruit for Christmas. This time every year here in the confines of my 9 to 5 second story, planted at one of the busiest and non-fruit growing intersections in the city, there is a little extra articulated artifice of office hope and joy as multiple parcel services bring us brightly wrapped boxes with bows. I went back to the day job kitchenette, to the boxes and bulging sacks with beautiful bows of snacky surplus well-concealed, yet yelling from within, filling, flowing and frothing over the small counter top space between the sink and the coffee maker. Once again the office is generously gifted from those who somehow believe we’re doing an esteemed service in their world. As small and obtuse as that service may seem, I have a little more hope and care that I’m doing something redeemable here, especially while downing decadent truffles, chomping white chocolate dipped pretzels and devouring piles of gourmet peanut clusters like a pack of hard-up foxes. If there is a time of year to lose one’s self, or, one’s elf, this is it. But, fruit for Christmas? Not me. No sir…
-djg