The Picture of Durian Gray
What's not to like about experimentation? It is variety that gives our lives flavour, that allows us to explore the world and ourselves. University is particularily known as a time of experimentation, where the doddering ways of yesteryear are peeled away to reveal the bright promise of strange, new, delightful experiences.
I speak, of course, of the purchasing of fruit.
Every time Colleen and I head off to the supermarket, we help ourselves to a little something-something from the produce department. This fruit, or "sports candy" as it is known in certain circles, is our especial treat; As soon as we get home we fall upon it greedily, slaking our ravenous hunger for fruitmeat with orgiastic abandon. Usually it is nothing too fancy: Some pomegranates, some plums, a mango, a bag of kiwi. But there are some days that, spurred onward by some unknown hand, we decide to really kick it up a notch.
To my hypothetical readers, I present: Le Durian.
BAM indeed.
This thing looks like it tumbled out of prehistory through some sort of, I don't know, fruit vortex. It has spines! Not thorns, or barbs, or little jabby bits. Spines. Like the dinosaurs had.
Its spines, we found, are not for show. They will, and do, spine you. It made for a painful and awkward trip home, transforming the grocery bag that contained it into a makeshift flail. Finally home, we set the damn thing in the kitchen and set to puzzling out its intricacies. A google search revealed that it comes from Malaysia, has the consistency of custard, and smells. When bought frozen, as ours was, it it best to crack them open right away lest they thaw and spoil. So it was time to get crackin'.
We gathered our tools.
A kitchen knife, A serrated knife, A pair of oven mitts, A screwdriver,
A hammer, A hacksaw, "Gladys", .. and my mitts.
We went outside, laid it in the snow and went to town. What ensued reminded me of a game I used to play as a child, known affectionately as "Smartie Wars". In the same way that jewelers compare the hardness of diamonds by scratching them against each other, I would press two smarties together until one would crack. The winner would go on to the glory of further competitions. The loser would be devoured. This mix of Darwinian fitness and gladiatorial sport helped me occupy myself while I snacked, drawing my mind away from the fact that I didn't even really like smarties that much anyway.
Here, then, was the "Durian War". We used the first knife on it, tried to cut away the spines. It bent. We used the second knife, tapping it into the husk with the hammer. Its handle cracked. We tried the same withthe screwdriver. It got stuck. We moved everything aside and wailed on it with the hammer. The hammer broke.
Now, my understanding of hammers is that they usually do the breaking. Apparently this durian was the botanical version of the Newtonian "immovable force". We ended up taking it inside, planting it on the kitchen floor and going at it with the hacksaw. As we finally gained ground, it began to issue forth its natural aroma.
I understand, now, that a durian does not smell. Neither does it stink, or even reek. It stenches. It stenched up my hands, my clothes, our house. Sort of like rotting eggs, sort of like an open septic tank, sort of like rotting meat. A reverse potpourri, if you will. It turns out these things are banned in some places, due to the smell. Go figure.
All told, our efforts had produced a mushy pile of yellowish glop that did not have the appearance and consistency of custard, but rather that of pus. What could we do with this mess of a dog's breakfast?
Why, what any sane couple would. We make a cake.
We are the best at fruit.