ari levi and the oranges
There’s an orchard over the fence with some early oranges already rolling down the slope, lost and fallen off the tree. Ripe. Fifteen overladen trees already and winter two weeks away.
Ari Levi follows his dog from the top house and waits by our backdoor, he’s three. Not one for looking you in the eye yet, other than a sharp glance. He’s down here bludging biscuits. Chocolate coated this morning. One for him and one for his brother, who idles with his iPad on the lounge at home. He’s five. Jarvis. Steady little bloke, quite the inquisitor at times. We have much in common.
There are three oranges on the table this morning, so we choose the navel. Ari and me. We have a cutting-board, a sharp knife and a small bowl of brown sugar handy.
Ari Levi doesn’t do pith, won’t abide it so he waits for the orange to be pared and properly quartered, laid out in its glistening juice. Then a sparkle of brown sugar sprinkled on the morsels. Making the sweet even sweeter.
There is no talk. The intensity of the preparation forbids it.
He doesn’t rush the prepared fruit and will only take a piece after being asked, takes it slowly to his mouth and chews down about twice. Pauses. Swallows.
Then this little grunt of satisfaction. ‘ gmh. ‘ Hardly audible.
He’s forgotten the chocolate biscuit he laid down on the verandah and it slowly melts away in the morning sun.
We agree that the last few pieces of orange might be supplemented by a dip into the molten chocolate swirl and the subsequent tasting this this time is slower, more circumspect. Finally approved. Then he and the dog depart.
The smaller grandson has had his due.
the likeness has been noted