I just ate a whole avocado. I only meant to eat half, but it was so good and they are better fresh. Unfortunately, I forgot to take a photo before I ate it.But that’s no problem – I went to the Internet and found this picture on “californiaavocado.com”.
There were lots of recipes, too. I got so distracted looking up “chocolate avocado bread” that I nearly forgot what I was going to write about
Being very fond of avocados, I find it astounding that what looks like a dinosaur egg contains such silky green yumminess. The one I just ate had a label stuck to the mottled skin: “Mission, ripe when soft, product of Mexico”.
This little guy obviously had a long history before it reached my kitchen. I don’t know who set it on top of the avocado pyramid in the grocery store, who unloaded it from the truck, who drove the truck all the way from Mexico to Ohio, or who plucked it off a tree.
I can imagine each of these events because they were performed by people and I’m a person.
But the event before the picking is something I cannot imagine. I could use this avocado in all sorts of ways, but I couldn’t make one. There is something mysterious and magical behind the forming of an avocado. Growing from the inside out, this round leathery object seems to appears out of nowhere.
The interior is hidden until it is opened with a knife to reveal something that has never been seen before. A green geode.
To try and understand this mystery, I pulled out my daughter’s college biology book. As I flipped through this three-inch-thick monument to knowledge, I came across the chapter on photosynthesis. OMG – page after page of crazy, gaudy cartoonish pictures of little things happening in the Tinyverse.
My eyes glazed over and I closed the book.I felt that if I spent enough time delving into the labyrinth of these diagrams, I could eventually store them in my memory.
But would I really understand how my avocado came to be? That mysterious process that brings something from nothing?
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