To the Avocado

Oh, avocados! You have been in my orbit for most of my life, though my feelings towards you have changed.

I remember our first encounter: me, a little girl, peering over the kitchen counter at my mother's lunch time creation. You: spread evenly over a piece of bread, tucked in gently under a soft bed of sprouts. I am not going to lie to you, avocados. Observing your bumpy skin and your green goo-ey inside, I did not share my mother's enthusiastic yum!

I am not sure when we met again, but I am pretty sure it involved the superfood catch-phrase phase I went through. I was all about the quinoa, having surpassed the point in time where I called it keen-oh-ahh, when you appeared in a recipe. Could I do it? Could I try?

Try, I did. Perhaps our second encounter was ruined because I wasn't 100% sure how to tell if you were ripe; perhaps it was ruined because I smashed you a bit trying to get you out. I cut you into even cubes and threw you into my Mediterranean salad with mild disdain. You melted--smooshed?--in my mouth, in contrast to the crunch of the quinoa. Did I like you then? Sadly, no.

It took a few trial and error events to seal the deal with you, avocado. I remember the moment just as well as the first: my best friend's wife's stagette, on the rooftop patio of a bustling pub on Whyte Ave. I was a few drinks in, which I don't think hurt your case; also, after a morning of manicures and pedicures and bridal festivities, I was starving. We got a bowl of guacamole to share.

I owe you an apology, avocados. There you were before me in all of your green glory, and I scooped you up with one of my all-time favourite food vessels, a trusty potato chip. You were cool against my tongue, a welcome relief in the scorching sun. I was hit by a bright burst of lime mixed with the sunniness of cilantro, and... was that garlic? It was garlic! How could I hate something that included one of my favourite spices! How could I begrudge your weird smooshy greenness, with all the maturity of a toddler!

This, I could get behind. It took all of the manners I possessed to not scarf down that whole bowl. All you need all this time was seasoning (and a not unhelpful side of chips). I think I fell in love with you.

My penultimate experience with you, dear avocado, took place in Paris. I was on my most cherished bucket list trip, exploring the war sites in France and Belgium with my aunt. It was our last night there, and we treated ourselves to a fancy restaurant. I ordered you essentially all your own; you were unadorned with anything, besides an oil based dressing in your centre. You were so fresh in my mouth--fresh enough that I regret not breaking down that dressing and copying this dish at home. Leaning back in my chair and taking a sip of red wine (is it Paris without it?), I watched the foot traffic through the window, full and satiated. You became a part of my travel dream.

Now, I use you all the time, avocado. Since we're past first impressions, I can put you in my quinoa salad. I can spread you on toast with just a small citrusy hit of lemon. I can mash you and mix you with yummy things and serve you on game-day, or I can have you as a healthy side to a tender slice of meat.

I have you now, dear avocado, lined up on my counter. I eagerly await your ripening.