The Conversation Rebecca Weeks

Rebecca Weeks

“Oranges,” he said, “are superior.” “By far,” he added. I could take the challenge. “No,” I countered, “apples win hands down.” I couldn’t believe this is what we were doing, comparing apples and oranges. Isn’t there a rule about this? But we were in. And it was playful. And I knew where I stood. “Oranges,” he said again, nodding to himself in confirmation. He didn’t move to defend, as if just saying their name was enough. I clambered into the barrel and took my place amongst the humble fruit of my heart. Apples. It was obvious. Apples are better, but was I really going to have to defend them? Sure, apples have history and it’s loaded. We all know this. They’re complicated and I love that about them. What would my life be like now if he had said he preferred apples – their blushing skin, the vast variety, their tenderness, the bruising, the utilitarian charm? And what about the diversity of texture, hue, size, shape, and storability? Can you bake an orange? Can you stew, compote, sauce, freeze, dry, can, or store an orange? Can you make a pie? There is no orange pie. There is no orange on the teacher’s desk as a token of gratitude and good will. There is no orange tree of knowledge of good and evil. Fig or quince or stone fruit – maybe – but not orange. The apple’s greatness is undeniable. Even the influence of a rotten apple is huge – spoiling the whole lot. I was stubborn. I knew full well the value of oranges. I was no idiot. But, I would not admit my appreciation for the sparkling magic within a self-contained and sweet spicy ball of gold.

Here was his argument: oranges are superior to apples because they come in their own packaging and can be neatly kept in a lunch bag or backpack. They’re full of vitamin C and laden with juices that hydrate the body. The spray of burst open orange peel is tantalizing, seductive, like perfume upon the skin. Every Christmas one of the exotic globes was in my stocking, old time symbol of a world beyond the daily relevance of apples.

not betray. Soon after this conversation he would leave. Move across the country. Start school in New England where oranges are sunshine from a climate far from ice storms and salt sand and woodstoves creaking with the quick start of maple or the slow burn of oak. He was headed to Maine, a land that years later would be my home with another man, birthplace of my daughters. Where I would bake pie and pandowdy and make applesauce. Where I would dry curling lengths of spun-off skins like laces. Where I would feed apples to chickens and hogs and a chestnut calf named Mozart. Where I would understand, finally, the relevance of oranges as treasure. “Oranges” he said with such confidence. My heart sank and I collapsed a little inside. For what I knew was this: I was an apple.

It was a first moment of stepping away from each other. We were wise, we thought. Smart, at least, vowing not to make decisions about relationship so young. He went to Maine. I went to Oregon. We said our goodbyes pleasantly. Later, he finished school and moved to Colorado. I finished school and moved to Maine where I would dig deep and feel real, purposeful. Where I would valiantly defend the apple and define myself.