Kumquats

I found kumquats this week at the Ferry Building market that I popped in my mouth one after the other until they were gone. I swallowed the seeds, talked with my mouth full. If I'd bought the entire box it wouldn't have been enough.

I know kumquats are generally politely sliced and tossed sparingly into a salad. That's nice.

They are even talked about with a slightly puckered smile if they are talked about at all. And then no one is paying attention.

When a kumquat is good though, when the skin is sweeter than sin, when the juice makes my wrists tingle and the sides of my mouth involuntarily smile, I pay attention.

I bite off the top with the stem, lick the first juice. Make sure it's good. With the tiniest second bite, I erase the almost sour with sweet and I'm ready. The entire fruit is next.

The rind is as orange on my tongue as it was in my hand and I resist the urge to chew it all at once. Instead I press the juice slowly from the inside, until the tart is almost too much and I can't stand the anticipation. Then like pressing on the accelerator at the last minute to run a red light I bite into the sugary skin.

That's where the truth of the kumquat happens. Where the taste of the entire fruit explodes then merges. That, right there, is what I'm talking about.

And I don't care if it's wrong to eat them whole. I can't stop until they are gone even though I don't know when I'll find them as fresh again.