The avocado. That yellowy-green jewel, beloved of the vegan and healthy eater. With an ability to shapeshift into both savoury and sweet culinary concoctions. Remarkably self-contained, like a banana, or a cupboard marketed as a flat in London.
I need to confess that I find this fruit immensely frustrating. It’s like a voyage in to the unknown every time you open one. It can feel perfect from the outside, then be black and mushy when you open it. You can slice it open and think it looks fine, but then it will be inexplicably tough and impenetrable. Avocados are toying with us, and they probably laugh while they are doing it.
I have had an avocado sat on my kitchen counter for the last few days. I had been waiting for it to properly ripen even though it was in a pack that confidently proclaimed its readiness to be consumed. When I opened it to prepare my lunch, it was ripe on one side (lengthwise) but a little unripe on the other edge. I managed to scoop it out of its olive-green shell. It was mostly ripe, but with a couple of troublesome spoonfuls, so I decided to blend it up with some coriander, lime juice, and a few little tomatoes. I think I heard a rebellious giggle as the pieces tumbled into the blender.
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