pineapple

I cut my first pineapple the other day, in preparation for one of my favorite mom foods. I used the huge wide knife J. brought back from China, which compensated for my lack of strength but not for my lack of precision. I watched a YouTube video on how to cut one (it also told you how to choose a good one, but I was about a week beyond that step, as noted by hovering fruit flies). You start by lying the pineapple horizontally and slicing the top and bottom, which is about a fifth of the fruit (more like a fourth in my case; will remember in the future that pineapples ripen quickly). Then you lie it upright and slice the sides, turning every so often to get missed curved edges, cutting into the fruit deeply to remove all the peel--and also the spikes embedded horizontally in the pineapple. This surprised me, because the spikes lie deeper than I expected, meaning that I sacrificed a lot of flesh to remove them (they are interspersed every few centimeters). You're then left with a hunk of flesh, which you cut in halves, then quarters. I was further surprised to find that in addition to the outer inedibles, the inner core consisted of a tough spine, a pale white that distinguishes it from the yellow edible. You form slices of pineapple around this, and add the spine to your pile of throw-away.

I think about the knowledge and experience I'm working to absorb, the frustrations in the midst of it, a depth that swallows and scares and humbles, a depth that is uncovered to me, a depth that is brushed aside, a fullness that's both suffocating and liberating, the bareness when I return home to myself after a day of people. I think of the brutality of this art and science, and what's left after we cut, cut, cut. Her red hair, the stud in his ten year old ear, his long eyelashes that are maybe an illusion of a small baby face.

The pineapple was sweet, its flavor fragrant and its skeleton awash in my hands.