The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup.
Appreciation is something to be practised at every opportunity like pelvic floor exercises and every bit as useful.
Since today the A-Z theme is in its infancy I shall demonstrate using an A word, and I choose the obvious apple. I happen to have some home grown russets, stored in my fridge over winter, but one bought from a shop is absolutely acceptable.
My apple is: wrinkly from long storage, rough leathered light brown skin, a bit of stalk where it was once attached to the tree. It fills my palm, the chilled weight of it, I can imagine it falling from the branch to the grass; thumping on the ground, rolling down the orchard slope till it catches and settles in uneven turf.
It has an earthy scent till I cut it, on the chopping board, under the sharpened steel blade of the vegetable knife. Opened apple fragrance is fresh and light, acidic sweet, faintly sour. The flesh of the russet is pale, off white, creamy-yellowish. The core is neatly packed with symmetrical seeds; glossy brown, chestnut coloured, the shape of tears, blueprints of future trees. It will take years of growing before these apple blossoms open. If I use the apple-corer it pulls a plug of flesh and seeds like a mining sample. It leaks juice. This apple I will cut into eight tidy segments, and eat skin on, piece by piece. Each bite has bite; crunchy, sharp, has a little bit of shiver to it.
This apple has only made its journey from a bud on a tree to full size fruit, dropping to the ground, via a yellow bucket, to arrive at the house next door. Other apples fly from thousands of miles away. There may be a hundredweight of a hundred different types of apple in the air over my head as I sit looking out of the window, eating this chopped up russet.
The more I feel appreciation for the apple, the lovelier the moment becomes.