Though I am not a lover of fruit, I do enjoy a ruby red grapefruit on Sunday mornings, particularly with some soft-boiled eggs and toast from Abe’s homemade bread. I start by washing the dimpled and blushing skin before slicing through the thick protective skin to cut it in half. On a sunny morning, you can see the rainfall of juice that mists out under the pressure of the knife. Since I share with my boyfriend, Abe, each half goes in a bowl. Then I meticulously cut around each segment. Each cut floods the grapefruit with more juice like a tart luxurious bath.
When all the segments are loose and the grapefruit is running over with pink juice, it is time to sprinkle on the sugar. Following my mom’s practice from my childhood, I fill the center pit, the pinnacle of the segments, with a mountain of sugar and let more sugar snow down on the rest of the grapefruit landscape. The sugar mountain quickly melts into the grapefruit, where it blends with the meat and juice as I butter the toast and shell the eggs.
By the time I am ready to eat this cozy breakfast, the sugar has merely entirely disappeared into the grapefruit. Pulling up the first spoonful, it is more like fruit soup than a hearty citrus. The tartness of the juice that explodes from the grapefruit capsules makes my mouth water with each bite. But finishing the segments is not the completion of the task. Now I get to drink the juice. Turning the grapefruit, cupped in one hand, I squish the dome into a flat semicircle, and then squeeze it the other way. When it is first turned over, juice immediately pours from the remaining skin bowl. My hands are covered in sticky juice and granules of sugar. I am tempted to lick my fingers, but I know from experience the bitter flavor left on my hands from the protective skin and instead just wash my hands. I can suffice myself from the juice in the bowl.