Apricot: (n): a juicy, small fruit resembling a peach, of an orangy-yellow color.
I do not feel that the apricot has been adequately addressed in any public forum.
It probably could remain so, and the world would continue to revolve and Kentucky Fried Chicken still contain eleven herbs and spices.
But since I have been blessed with the benefit of sharing useless information to very valuable people, I shall elaborate on ny sentiments about this little fruit.
First and foremost, it is a temperamental sort. It has about a fifteen-minute life cycle, when it is sweet enough to eat, and the rest of the time is either too hard or too bitter to undulate on the great dance floor of my mouth.
To determine this, I have denigrated myself to the caveman mentality of “squeezing for freshness.” If I feel, upon palming the item, that the skin of the fruit somehow separates from the meat, then it is possibly ripe enough to eat.
If, upon placing it in my hand, it resembles a golf ball, then I know to put it aside and leave it alone, lest its bitter disposition enter my sanctuary.
The second aspect of the apricot–which I’ve never heard anyone explain–is that even when I do find one ready for consumption, because the skin is a bit tough, or perhaps a touch furry, I feel compelled to use my teeth and tongue to fold it over, so that the fruity side touches my teeth and the skin is tucked inside.
Does anyone else do that besides me? If you don’t, I can recommend it–because then you get the soft, sweet fruit without the tough hide.(Which, by the way, might be an accurate parallel to my relationship with women.)
So I would have to conclude that I am quite fond of apricots, but I do want to make sure that they are adequately ripe and that the skin stays away from setting my teeth on edge.
Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) — J.R. Practix