Only in Florida

The long sharp knife deftly cuts each orb in half with a single slice. Six demi-spheres lie on the counter, rocking slightly, revealing their yellowpink flesh. My grandmother chooses a new tool, a curved knife, slightly serrated, created just for this job. Each segment is separated from its membrane, but left intact inside its fleshy bowl. She places the fruit on little plates, and hands them to me to bring to the table, one half grapefruit per person.

Only in Florida is grapefruit considered an appetizer.

I pick up my spoon, specially designed for the task: oblong with a serrated edge. I take a first taste, feigning a test of the grapefruit’s astringency, but knowing full well that I will reach for the sugar bowl. No grapefruit on earth is sweet enough for an eight year old’s palate.

I sprinkle the sugar, just a light dusting, and watch as the crystals melt shimmering onto the fruit. And now another taste, this time bright and vibrant, tart and sugary. I dig down, making sure to get some of the now sweetened juice in every bite. This was the taste of sunshine, of visits to Grandma and Grandpa, of swimming pools and shuffleboard, of humidity, of winter break in Miami.

Every so often, back home in Southern California, my mom would serve a grapefruit before dinner, but it was never the same. I’m sure the fruit was just as good (the grapefruits probably even imported from Florida) but we didn’t have the special plates, the serrated spoons, the glass of sun tea on the side. We didn’t have the carefree days of a school break.

But mostly, we didn’t have Grandma and Grandpa.

This post is part of The Red Dress Club memoir writing series, RemembeRED. This week, we were asked to write about our favorite fresh fruit or vegetable. Although grapefruit is hardly my favorite fruit, it does hold some special memories.