The Fruit Exchange

By Jim Hagarty

My dietitian is a dreamer which is good because the world needs more dreamers. She wants me to give up frozen orange juice and eat real oranges instead. Something about fibre. She hasn’t used the words but others in her profession have referred to orange juice as “yellow pop” which, to me, is offensive. But my dietitian seems so earnest about these things and believes everything she says. Who am I to argue?

This morning, I took out the orange juice, then put the container back into the fridge and picked up a real, live orange instead. It took quite an effort to peel the giant sucker, with its skin as tough as a rhino’s, but with the help of a spoon I finally got the job done. But even with the outside layer gone, there was another white subskin that clung to the fruit like a leach to a pond swimmer. I tried to remove it but gave up.

I broke the monstrous thing up into sections and started eating them. Man were they tough to gobble up and choke down. By the time I finished, I was a mess. Covered in juice from chin to shin. I rushed to the kitchen sink and got myself cleaned up.

I have bad news for my dietitian. This was the worst-tasting orange I have ever eaten. I doubt the experience will be repeated soon.

About then, a family member began asking around to find out what happened to the grapefruit that had been near the toaster.

I feel sorry for my dietitian. She earns every penny she makes. I recommend she be given a raise, in fact. She has to deal with some very confused individuals.

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 65-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.

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