The Toughest Fruit in the World
Once a week, my friend Andrew and I get together to watch sports and eat as many Buffalo wings as we can. It’s kind of like a long term suicide pact. We knowingly and willfully, on a weekly basis, over-indulge in what is perhaps the unhealthiest food on the planet: deep fried chicken skin covered in butter/hot sauce, dipped in blue cheese dressing. It doesn’t even matter what sporting event it is: football, baseball, basketball, soccer, rugby, curling, cricket, arm wrestling, Iron Chef, national Scrabble championship, competitive dentistry, jousting, some guys at a bar playing rock-paper-scissors… literally anything; just as long as it facilitates the consumption of Buffalo wings.
A few weeks ago, we went out to watch the final four. We split 30 wings, six Tecates and an order of nachos to wash it down and, after the Michigan State Spartans dispatched the Connecticut Huskies, we decided to walk around Williamsburg to get the circulation to return to our extremities. It was the first semi-warm night of the year and Andrew decided he wanted to celebrate with some ice cream.
I’m normally not a sweets kind of person. I’ve been known, in the past, to order a baked potato for desert (not a joke), I tend to salt things that don’t need to be salted (like bacon), and with all the energy drinks, deep-fried chicken skin and excessive salt consumption, I would have to guess that my blood pressure is somewhere around 500 over 700, which isn’t even physically possible. In any case, due to my distaste for sweets I tried, unsuccessfully, to convince my friend that we should get more buffalo wings as opposed to eating ice cream.
Inside the ice cream parlor (do people still say “ice cream parlor”?), I waited patiently, but disinterestedly, as Andrew perused the flavors. I’ve known him for years so I’m familiar with the fact that the way Andrew keeps his life as stress-free as possible is by making important decisions quickly and unimportant decisions cautiously. For example, he decided to move to New York by thinking to himself “I’m going to move to New York,” but when faced with a variety of flavors of ice cream, he’ll hum and haw, rub his chin and say, “Let’s see…” I can’t say that I quite understand the logic, but I can say that I’ve gotten used to it over the years.
In any case, after several minutes he’d made his decision and I was asked by the less patient person behind the counter if I’d like anything. I was about to say, “No thank you, I’m not a sweets person,” when I noticed a sign that said “Blood Orange sorbet.” Being a big fan of evocatively named food, I didn’t hesitate to say, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’d like some Blood Orange sorbet.” It was the best decision I’ve made in years.
Here are three reasons why Blood Orange sorbet is my new favorite sweet treat:
- It’s delicious (this should be reason enough, but there are two more)
- It’s probably the citrusiest thing I’ve ever eaten; literally like eating five oranges in one. Every bite is a cherry bomb of fructose and citric acid.
- It’s cool to say “Blood Orange,” particularly the “Blood” part. Blood Oranges are, without a doubt, the toughest sounding fruit in world (the runners-up being “dragon fruit” and “death peach”*). If you tell someone that you’re eating sorbet you sound like a wimp. Tell someone you’re eating Blood Orange sorbet and you sound like Charles Bronson.
“Hey, what are you eating?”
“Huh, that’s lame. What kind of sorbet?”
*gasp* “Cooooool. Was there foul play involved?”
This isn’t your grandmother’s sorbet. Not unless your grandmother looks like Mr. T and even if she doesn’t already look like him, she just might after eating this totally boss sorbet flavor. And if eating something with blood in the title isn’t enough for you, it’s even possible to heighten the already intense sense of danger. For example, I like to eat Blood Orange sorbet with a switchblade. Other times I’ll eat it in a burning building; which is convenient because it keeps me cool (both temperature-wise and in the cool-under-pressure sense).
*There is no such thing as a death peach.