The Year of the Orange

The Year of the Orange

Age is a funny old thing and trying to recall what you were doing at certain points in your life, can dust off some bizarre memories.

I can remember at the age of 5 being rushed off to hospital, sweating and doubled over in pain, wrapped in a red tartan car blanket with twiddly tassels around the edges (standard issue Ford Cortina boot contents). It was mid-December and the fruit bowls in the house were all bursting with tangerines. I sneaked down in the dead of night, stole as many as my tiny hands could carry in one mission and retreated to my single bed to unwrap the juicy flesh, consume, then hide the peel under the mattress.

The coincidental timing of the worlds biggest belly ache and acute appendicitis was inopportune and I tried desperately hard to curl up and go to sleep through it, believing all I’d need the next morning was a good poo to clear the orange onslaught I’d treated my guts to in the wee small hours.

As clear as that thinking must have seemed to me at the time, I reached a point where I couldn’t keep my groans to myself. Parents duly arrived, hospital ensued, death was (apparently) averted by the skin of its teeth.

Despite the deeply disturbing food memories one might think I’d been left with following the citric Noel incident, I love them to bits and following my switch to a completely vegan diet in early 2016, I love them even more but here’s the irksome thing. I recently learned that the peely jackets of citrus fruits are highly likely to have been waxed with shellac to give them a natural looking finish! The beetle-juice is also commonly slapped on commercially grown apples to replace their natural wax which is deftly removed during the cleaning process.

On the citrus front, if you reach for unwaxed options you’ll be fine but I really don’t know enough about the apple situation yet and am left, quite bereft and needing to do some more research. Of course, harvesting them yourself will reduce the buggy odds to zero and if you buy them from a local farm, you’ll be able to ask.

Oh ohh…

You know how it is when you go into a room and then you completely forget what you went in for?

I’ve just done that in blog form.

I had all good intentions of starting to explain why, at the marginally overripe* age of 50, I feel compelled to nail all my colours to the wall, but I got distracted by the bloody shellac research!

Oh well, that’s for another day.


* For ‘marginally overripe’ read: you know how it is when you squeeze an avocado and it yells, “Eat me today dude or I’ll start rolling towards the food recycling bin, with or without you”!