I've been toying with driving back to Arizona for one main reason: oranges. I have memories of my ten year old self, hiding in the orange tree in my front yard, reading books my mother's John D. MacDonald* books and living off the sweet valencias. Oh my!
There's nothing like a fresh orange. Nothing! Y'all don't know how good you have it. Oranges in Texarkana grocery stores aren't even orange. They are a motley green-orangish. So, why bother? A few weeks ago Marty and I went to Dallas and I bought oranges. They were a wonderful fake. Polly and I were burning through the bag. That is, until I got a care package this week from a dear friend in Arizona who sent me fresh citrus from her trees. I did a taste test between the leftover Dallas oranges and the ones from Arizona. Not even close.
Yesterday, I went to a friend's house for lunch. I brought over soup and oranges for dessert. My friend said, "I really don't care for oranges." Bwhahaha! She'd never had a real Arizona orange before. She's now a fan and gets the hype.
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| Oh yes! Polly is making lemon curd. |
*At the age of ten, I read EVERYTHING I could get my hands on--except Judy Blume, stories of preteen girls struggling through preteen girl experiences. I wasn't allowed to read those. My mother considered them too "adult." So, I binged on my mother's John D. MacDonald novels. Judy had nothing "adult" compared to Johnny Mac's pulp.
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