By Katie Buitrago
A preface: I have a complicated relationship with fruit. Meaning: I don’t like it. Any of it. Not apples, oranges, mangoes, watermelon . . . not even [insert your favorite fruit you can’t fathom anyone ever hating here].
I know this is shameful, and bizarre, and horrifically unhealthy. I know. I don’t know why I was made like this, and it frustrates me endlessly. In my adult life, I’m trying really hard to rectify the situation. I can occasionally stomach a tangerine. I went on a romantic blackberry picking trip in summery Michigan, and not even bumblebees and sunsets could overcome my aversion to their seedy enfilade. There’s just something repugnant about seeds or fibers or little hairs swimming about my mouth, raining on my picnic of tart, juicy delights.
Not so with the Fruit Slinger.
Posted on August 6, 2009