Crooked apple

“Apple: a firm round fruit with a central core, red, green, or yellow skin, and white or yellow flesh.”
Encarta Dictionary

I’m not sure I could call it round. It’s definitely not a sphere, and neither does it fit the Standard heart-shaped apple style. In reality, I would say that it’s the equivalent of a crooked nose in the fruit world. From one side it vainly attempts to simulate a heart shape, but it seems that along the way someone tugged it at its lower left side with his or her ex claiming its piece at the opposite corner, giving it an elongated wave like figure, quite unexpected of an apple. Being a democratic person I turn it so I can see the other face of the issue, or in this case the apple, and discover a whole new world, more accurately a new continent: Africa in apple matter. With its friendly bump on top and a slender lower point it’s easy to forget its problem ridden tugged side. Its northern tip with its relatively small but confident tip coming up, it’s obviously oblivious to the controversial formations evident across the apple’s main body. Yet Africa and Tugged Side could still be the lower end with the weird orange closely approaching deep brown, so it could be worse… nobody likes dirty looking apples and certainly not brown skinned ones. Then, as my eyes trace its contour upwards it starts getting redder, reminding you that after all this apple is one of that infamous paradise fruit descendents and passed the luscious-enough-to-sell test. Of course, there’s that aforementioned Africa bump which menaces to finish its conversion to yellow, smudging the red monopoly the moment your eyes drift away, but it’s still not too intruding and we can always see it an as exotic trait.

Comfortably fitting in my hand, it’s approximately the size of my heart, that is, if you trust those kids’ science books who say that your heart is the size of your first. Its just-out-of-the-freezer cold surface smoothly travels across the non-eloquent world of my fingers; surely its original tree is far more interesting. But alas, that’s the life of an apple… or at least this one. From tree to fabric (the apple equivalent of Venezuela’s Miss Universe training and polishing schools) where only the reddest and more American looking ones get free passage to the supermarket. Hopefully, once there someone will take it and appreciate its journey with an unapologizing bite. But wait, I have forwarded the process, there’s no point to biting my apple if I cannot appreciate its war scars; its quest shouldn’t go unnoticed. My fingers suddenly discover that, after all, the surface is not so smooth, there’s a light scrape where it may have fell or received the too enthusiastic touch of some anonymous soccer mom. Either by serendipity or some perverse quirk of fate, it’s just beside the Africa bump - who said apples were indifferent to our world?