Wednesday, August 15, 2007
A Sack Worth Grabbing
It’s raining feral plums again. Last weekend (okay, I wrote this a while ago, but let’s call it literary license) when I came back from a run in the park with the boy snoozing in the jogstroller, I stopped at the greenbelt across the street and picked up a fallen pinecone. I tossed it overhead into the leafy laden boughs of a mature tree and knocked down with it a dozen or so golden plums, each the size of a shooter marble. They were warm from the sun and pliant to the touch, so obviously full of juice and flavor I could almost taste them with my eager fingertips as I harvested them from the dry grass. A couple of dapper summery men strolled past; one asked what I was doing. “Harvesting plums,” I succinctly explained, barely pausing from my seasonal labors; “they just come right down at the slightest touch.” They glanced to each other briefly and as I wheeled my sleeping boy and sweaty self back across to the house, I left them flailing with shopping bags at the branches over their heads. Good, I thought – it’s good to get more people familiar with the natural sweetness overarching us all.
This gratis succulence puts me in mind of a sack I snagged a few weeks ago – a sack so luscious, in so many ways, that it almost demands memorialization. It happened, as so many luscious experiences do, on Clement Street. I’d gone there for to do a little produce shopping at New May Wah, the gigantic Asian onmimart with the double produce overload. Not only do they have a big indoors produce selection with burdock and bac ha and numerous aromatic greens - a full three aisles of natural-grown goodness (including the only green papayas I’ve been able to find hereabouts), there’s also a rack of wooden carts outside that groan with fruity goodness along the full and significant length of the storefront out on the sidewalk. That’s where the mangos and plantains and plucots and durian hang out, and that’s where I found the red plastic mesh sacks of bumpy carmine nuggets that inspire this screed.
I’d only had lychees in restaurants; they seemed to be the kind of delicacy that couldn’t exist at home, like fancy pastries or crème brulee. Dripping with juices, textured like candy, I didn’t realize I could just up and buy them myself until I caught a whiff of them outside New May Wah by the door to the perishables section.
It got my attention pretty effectively. I peeked at the sack of ruddy baubles; I hefted it; I prodded and I sniffed. Heavier than I’d expected – always a good sign for purchasers of fruit. Slightly resistant to the probing fingertip, but not overly so. Barely any green spots; perfumed intensely.
I was already getting a major load of fruits and veggies so I just dumped a sack of lychees into my basket. That’s right, a whole damn sack. That’s how they were being sold - sackwise, tied up tight and rather too generously filled for my preferences. Given my choice I’d have gotten a handful or so, but that wasn’t the choice they’d given me. It was a five-pound bag or nothing and they smelled too good to leave them behind. I spent twenty dollars on produce that day – two bulging sacks worth – and the heaviest, costliest item of all was my load of mysterious lychee.
I left the store heavily laden, both arms stretching out at shoulder, elbow and wrist with nature’s bounty. The sidewalk, as is its wont, was teeming. Tough old ladies prowled and dizzy teens meandered and families tumbled haltingly along in the shadowless midday sun; entering the flow of foot traffic with my unwieldy burden was an exercise in both dexterity and timing. I made my move swiftly and integrated myself into the throng, winding up adjacent to a handful of folk out and about on their own undisclosed errands. They seemed to be at the leading edge of being elderly, well-dressed and well-groomed, and they bore an air of local sophistication. One man and three women, they looked Chinese and they fit very well into the general milieu of the street.
As I swung out beside them on my way home I couldn’t help but overhear that they were discussing the multiplicity of offerings at the New May Wah outdoor fruit displays. “Ugh, those lychees,” the man uttered disdainfully. “Never again. The worst I’ve ever had.”
Without a thought I replied to him, since he was only a foot or two from me: “Don’t tell me that. I just spent $5 on a bag and they’re the heaviest thing I’m carrying.”
Instantly I realized I’d crossed a line – not only was it a conversational invasion, but it was rendered more egregious by the cultural lines I was crossing. A white boy like me really had no place butting into a chat on Clement-Gao among his Asian elders. However, my disquietude was short-lived, as my new lychee buddy picked up the gambit without missing a beat. “Oh yeah, they were bitter and sour, hard as rocks – I could hardly put them in my mouth, they just sucked the juice right out of me.” His friends favored me with supportive grins. Suddenly we were a Gang of Five.
“Well the ones I just bought smell really sweet, that’s why they caught my attention; then I touched them through that plastic mesh they’re wrapped in and they felt pretty ripe. Maybe they’re better now, riper? How long ago did you get your bad sack?”
“Couple of weeks, I guess. Sounds like you’ve done better than I did. They might be ripe by now. But you know, I never like to get those pre-packaged sacks they sell. They always sell you too much and you can’t really tell what you’re getting.”
His friends nodded as I voiced my agreement: “Oh that’s so true. I would have gotten half this load of lychees if I’d had that option. And same for water chestnuts, too. You can’t tell what you’re getting and you usually get too much.”
My compadres offered a chorus of agreement and the guy who bought the bad lychees commiserated more expressively: “Oh yes, those sealed sacks of water chestnuts are the worst, half of them have always gone bad and half of what’s left goes bad before you can get to them.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem for me,” I replied breezily, “no matter how many good ones I get, I finish them all. They’re just so delicious, I can’t stop eating them.” We all shared a polite but hearty laugh. “I need to duck in here,” I told them as we got to the next store I had to visit, “have a good one.” “You, too,” they corporately replied, “enjoy your lychees!” Ten minutes or so later I saw them all again, crossing my path as I headed back home; we shared a convivial grin and nod and went on along our respective paths.
When I got back home I was still tickled by these interactions with the older Chinese lychee eaters. I dropped my straining shopping bags on the counter and my own lychee sack tumbled out, fragrance pouring through the red mesh. I cut the sack open, plucked out a likely candidate, sliced though its knurled hide and deep enough to free the pit. Clear nectar ran over my fingers and down to my elbows, as I inhaled the scent and then popped the dripping fruit into my mouth.
I was instantly overwhelmed by almost unbearable sweetness, so irresistible that I found myself licking the dividends off my fingers, wrists and forearms. I immediately shucked and munched another, and another, and another. After half a dozen or so I slowed down to see if they liked me as much as I liked them but luckily it turns out that they did. No upset stomach, no allergic irritation, no anaphylactic shock. Just pure sweet lychee goodness. So I scarfed a few more and then dumped the rest in a nice display-type bowl to enjoy at my leisure.
Over the next several days I ate a lot of lychee, each one equally delectable and succulent. Once I’d had them for nearly a week, however, I began to notice little white flecks on them. Seems I’d let them sit out too long and they’d gone and molded up on me. Reluctantly I threw them away. However, lingering still is the quadruple sweetness of their sugary perfume, their abundant juice, their delightful flesh, and the fortuitous conversation they inspired. Best five bucks I’ve spent in months.
MORAL: When the fruit is ripe, take it and enjoy it. If you let it get away you will never know what you’ve missed.
