IT’S hard enough to motivate yourself to go for a run without having to put on wet socks. My feet dread their cloth cocoons. The rain earlier that day forced me to take down my drying laundry from the terrace clothesline. Finding a drying machine around here would be like stumbling across a pot of gold. Damp and cold, I muffle my barking dogs in the cushion of my New Balance sneakers; I tighten the laces and take off.
Running through orange orchards is a pretty energizing feeling. Alamillo Park provides this scenery for me. My eyes dart from tree to tree jumping from one sunny colored sphere to the next and my legs do their best to keep up; pushing me further into the citrus forest. I’m absorbing the visual wonderland sprouting around me and trying to breath in every ounce of sweet air, panting and inhaling almost bursts my balloons.
The oranges that grow in the city, lining the streets are charming and fragrant, but inedible in contrast to the orchard oranges.
The city trees only have enough soil to blossom and fruit, but not enough nutrients to create flavor within. These dud oranges are used to produce marmalade, not your juice in the morning.
I know that these oranges are bitter, but giving into my inner “Eve” I let temptation take over and I pluck a forbidden orange from its branch. Ripping the peel away sprays particles of juice and reveals the fleshy fruit. I sink my teeth in and immediately regret it. I can’t get the wretched taste out of my mouth quickly enough.
The lingering lesson learned stains my taste buds for the rest of the day like a proverbial “I told you so.”