Grapefruit With a Friend

Project 365, Day 3

Many weeks back, I started a blog post draft about how I cannot stand the “designer pillow chop” and can we please stop doing it. I was going to finish that today, but instead, I thought of something else. Something completely and utterly innocuous so I figured I’d give that a whirl instead.

Yesterday morning, as I stood in the kitchen prepping a grapefruit—wrapped in my robe that’s been working more overtime than Amazon drivers lately, my feet sheathed in butter socks (truly the best)—my mind was flooded with the memory of why I cut my ruby reds the way that I do.

I think we all have periods in our life where we cling to certain friends for a season. Maybe because it’s comfortable, maybe because you need them or they need you, even if it’s not obvious at the time why. I was post-college by a few years and spent a considerable amount of my free time with a certain friend. Let’s call her Mel.

Mel was—is, just writing in past tense as we don’t talk much these days as life tends to do to friendships—one of the most exuberant people I had ever known. She was the type of person to who you were drawn like fresh chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. She was her own person, and I’m always attracted to those types.

Mel always seemed to be ahead of the curve. An influencer before that was even a thing.

I can remember going over to her home one day to help her paint her bedroom, and when she cracked open the tin, I stepped back in confusion. “You’re painting your room gray?” You see, at this point, gray was to be reserved for concrete, maybe a gym shirt. It most certainly wasn’t for decor. Beige reigned supreme, blue if you were daring. But gray?!? Unheard of. I can’t recall her exact words back to me, but it was the equivalent of a brush-off; a “I know what I’m doing” type of reaction. Her room, her rules, I suppose.

Another such story to really drive home the point: she picked me up one day to go do something…probably eat at The Cheesecake Factory or another suburban mall-related activity. There may have even been a cinnamon sugar Auntie Anne’s pretzel involved (wait, why did I stop eating those masterpieces?). I plopped into the passenger seat just as she was adjusting her pants. “Why are your jeans so tight?!?” I said, or at least something to that end. She was wearing the tightest pair of jeans I had ever seen at that point. They were practically painted on, like leggings. They didn’t flare, at all. There was no bootcut at the ankle. Nothing to get caught at the bottom of your shoe when you walked to get all torn up and muddy. What on earth was going on here? What fresh hell was this? “They’re ‘skinny’ jeans. It’s a new thing…though not very comfortable, btw. I can hardly breathe.”

That Mel…always a step ahead. The Regina George of my life, minus the cattiness (Cady-ness? #MeanGirlsForLife…the movie, not actually being mean.)

Mel loved a grapefruit. She was thin while I was always a bit chubby, so if Mel ate grapefruits and I didn’t, clearly that was part of the reason, yes? Obviously. She never pressured me into the grapefruit life. In fact, Mel was the type of anti-band wagoner that probably was a bit miffed when something she was doing caught on, quickly finding something new to focus on instead. But we were actually friends, not faky friends, so rather than declaring blood oranges the new grapefruit, she taught me the ways of the grapefruit. More specifically, how she cut hers and ate it.

I had always just sectioned a grapefruit into wedges, similar to any other citrus. But after watching her so eloquently eat hers, I realized there simply was no other way.

Cut in half and place in a bowl.

Share other half with friend if you’re feeling generous, or set aside for the next day.

Slide a knife between the flesh of the fruit and the membrane on each little triangle, careful not to cut all the way through the pith on the bottom.

Run a knife all the way around the edge of the fruit, releasing beautiful, juicy ruby gems.

Eat each resulting piece with a spoon; scrape the edges where some meat remained when all the pieces are sadly finished.

Squeeze the carcass of the grapefruit, catching the runoff juices in your spoon, taking little prized sips from the belly of the spoon until dry.

Repeat the next day.

I will never not cut and enjoy a grapefruit like this. I know serrated grapefruit spoons exist, but there’s something special to me about this ritual. It’s like it’s me and Mel again, in her kitchen, chatting about the possibilities of adult life with the enthusiasm only possible in 22-year-olds. Grapefruit with a friend, if only in my mind.