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I ate more oranges when I was a child than I do now, I think. We did not have a tree, but instead were showered by Phyllis Rope, up the road, which I would bring back in the wiremesh basket on the front of my scratchily yellow 'Malver Star'. Perhaps it is my memory playing tricks, but fruit was different way back when, less bountiful, and certainly less varied. We had apples, and oranges, and for part of the year, bananas. Pineapples came in a can labelled 'Golden Circle'. The vaiety seemed to come in apples alone, with the choice of Jonathon, Delicious, or Granny Smith.
With my trusty red pen knife, I would sit on the back step, and endeavour to slice around, and around the orange (mostly Navels, but Dad liked the occasional Valencia), trying to keep the peel,equal in width, but NOT broken. I have only just realised how much concentration this must have taken. Of course, the orange tasted better if I could manage this, probably the bitter tang of disappointment was the missing ingredient! With the tip of the blade, the remaining pith was teased from the fruit, a thumb shoved into the nether regions, and the segments (?) exposed.
I am teaching Alannah the variety of apples and pears, just as my father taught them to me, he being an old 'barrow' man. She likes Packham pears, but knows that Beurre Bosc exist. I will go over to Harris Farm and see if I can rustle up perhaps a Naashi, or a Williams, or a Winter Cole, or even, perhaps, a Josephine.
Ohho, would Dad be chuffed!
