A few days ago, I bought a bag of perfect red grapes. Each orb's taut purple skin seemed to just hold in the sweet, juicy sphere of flesh inside. It is not even close to grape season here; no, these beauties and their large carbon footprint came from Argentina, but I could not resist the tangle of succulent bunches batting its collective eye from the display table. I have enjoyed each and every pluck from the vine. Lord almighty am I ready for spring and summer produce. There are only so many oranges/grapefruits/apples/pears I can really be excited about. I lust for the fragrance of ripe peaches and plums, that which comes from the stage of maturation in which you can be sure that a delicate yet confident bite will reward you with rivers of sugary bliss coursing down your chin. I pine for equally scrumptious tomatoes of all type, from the miraculous Sungolds to the masculine meatiness of a beefsteak or black Krim. Sexy cherries, plump with the sweet-tangy nectar within, and apricots with their feminine wiles and fleeting moment between under-ripe and mush call to me with promises of pleasure. Ataulfo mangoes will have their moment as the star too, and I'll take full advantage of their generosity, stripping clean with teeth and tongue the shallow bowls of elixir made by the simple motion of sharp knife removing the strong grip of the seed.
For now I suppose I'll just be glad the sun is out and that on occasion I'll break with seasonal locavorism and indulge in those Argentine grapes.