There’s this thing at work. The week delivery by the Fruit Guys. It’s fruit delivered, apparently by men. Mostly it’s bananas.

Maybe it was my fruit jones from skipping the farmers’ market yesterday. It was a choice, pure and simple, laze in bed on a Sunday morning with the best beau I’s ever had, or get up and buy produce. Fresh, juicy, warmed in the sun produce. Or M. Decisions, decisions.

Anyway, I went to work unsated, if you will, without my trip to the farmers’ stands. The fruit at work, therefore, spoke to me. It whispered in a sultry, picked from the earth, sensuous plea, “Eat me.” Particularly, I heard the siren song of the one thing in the basket I didn’t recognize. It was wrinkled and purple and seemed almost dry and neglected. I had to know what was inside.

I sliced in to the mystery fruit. And, you know, you just know, you are eating brave when a chick in your office from another culture know for eating anything, I mean I saw a restaurant once that had a sign “if it swims, we eat it,” if that chick says, “Wow, you are going to eat that, what is it?” you’re on the edge. Out from my crooked slice spilled seeds suspended in an fish-egg-like cluster with enough juice and pulp oozing over them to completely remind one of fish splooge in spawning season.

Fucking, yum.

The juice and pulp had a familiar tang and a few clicks of Google later, I realized it was most likely a passionfruit. OK, then, something of which I’ve heard, o juices that have tantalized my palate.

But the same Google search gave me fun facts like, “a cyanogenic glycoside is found in the pulp of passionfruits at all stages of development.” Yeah, that makes for some good eating that cyanide. And apparently, some scientists some where are trying to work out using it as a sedative. Sweet.

Maybe I’m not really suicidal or playing through a death-wish. Nah. But, maybe I could be a little bit more discriminating on what I shove into my mouth.

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