Why I Hate an Orange

I love orange.

Orange; cats, candy, and seltzer are my jam. Oh, and add marmalade to that mix. Hand me an appropriately prepared and arranged orange slice on the side of my large platter of scrambled eggs? Fabulous! Just don't let it touch the eggs themselves. 

Orange cakes, cookies, funky sneakers, and blush? Hell yeah. Want me to peel an orange? Oh, honey.

With all of today's modern conveniences where I can more or less get whatever food I want at any time, why, oh why, would I eat an orange? 

Time and patience (and texture) are critical factors in this neurodivergent/autism spectrum persons eating habits. If I have to make my meal or snack, you better believe it's microwave city or whatever can be unwrapped the fastest. 

An orange comes in the most frustrating packaging! And why does it have a belly button? Gross! And why is the skin full of divets? And, oh yeah, if you want to save yourself an hour, don't bring up pith. 

You've been forewarned, I bring up pith. A lot. More than any one person has ever talked about this monstrosity of a thing. 

So, if you're into insanity, this is what I, a person who is fully aware of how not normal they are, thinks if I'm told to peel and eat an orange.

Deep breath. Neck crack. Okay.

This skin is too thick. I have to dig my nails into this bizarre exterior. Plunge too far and you have a juice explosion and now you're sticky. Don't touch the weird belly button. Why in the fuck does it have a belly button. Naval orange. Shudder.

Dig and turn and pull. This softball is now the size of a tennis ball. Remove the too-thick skin and now half the thing goes in the trash. Why am I still peeling this thick-skinned thing, what a pain in the ass. What a waste of time.

Now, you have a white ball. And ugh, cringe, gag, balk, you're holding a sphere of pith. 

Pith, I hate you. What. Are. You. You are the gross and wrong textured alien underbelly to the too thick skin! Why is there so much skin on a fruit!?

Now, the pith must go. You must *touch* this disgusting nightmare. Peeling, turning, tugging, ripping, gagging. A slimy yet dry pile of an abomination of the wrong texture. So. Wrong.

Now your tennis ball is smaller still. And you still can't eat it. (Grubhub could've delivered two meals by now, just sayin') and now you're sticky. Time to pull this thing apart one half at a time. 

Yank and twist. Now there are two halves. And more God-forsaken pith! A long and vile line of pith. The uvula of this thing. Add it to the trash. Disgusting. 

Pull apart the little slices. Realize you'd much rather have gourmet jellied fruit slices handmade in Boston. Now that's an orange, with better flavor, better texture, and none of this work. 

More unbearable and inedible fucking pith. The Shakespearean tragedy of the fruit world, except not enjoyable. Or poetic. Why am I trying to defend pith? Digress. Make a pile of slices. Repeat this whole ridiculous paragraph. 

Now that 42% of the orange is thrown away, you're left with, what, 12 little slices sitting in a sticky juice pile? 12 bites after all that ridiculous work. Why so much work for almost no reward? Is it even worth it?

No. The much shorter and far less bonkers answer is no. Clearly, it isn't. Clearly, I don't eat fruit. Clearly, I am an ND eater who is so unbearably, insanely picky, that I have kept all this lunacy to myself for decades. 

I do love orange though, got any pekoe tea or orange chicken?