The World is My Onion

MY FAVORITE FOOD IN THE WORLD is the fruit of the prickly pear cactus. A neighbor introduced it to me while living on the Mediterranean coast in Spain. Cool, fresh, juicy, deliciously sweet. I was instantly addicted.

Preparing the fruit took careful work, and my generous neighbor taught me to roll it across the driveway while spraying it with water to completely remove the spines. The labor paid off as the succulent fruit dissolved in my mouth. No chewing was necessary to remove the flesh from between the round seeds.

I’ve never forgotten the experience. And on a trip through Mexico this summer I saw it again—ripe purple fruit atop tall fan-shaped cactus. It stood silhouetted against the distant sky, growing from a narrow rocky ridge that quickly turned to cliff and dropped dramatically into the distant green valley.

We were flying along steep, twisty mountain roads at the time. We had already driven across over 150 miles of such switchbacks that day and another 200 miles awaited us before we would reach the coast and smooth, straight highways again.

Rain showers doused our car off and on the whole way through the mountains. Even with the wipers on high, I could sometimes make out no details of the road or surrounding lush vegetation. Only the gray of the road, the green of the plants, and the black of the midday sky.

By the time I realized just how good that fruit would have tasted and what I had missed out on, we had reached the next tight curve. I downshifted to second to save the brakes, watching the road ahead for oncoming traffic that could appear at any second. I swore right then and there that I would stop at the next ripe cactus and pick its fruit.

I haven’t seen one since.

We passed many more prickly pears along our way to the coast, but all the fruits were still green. They would be hard and sour. I wish now that I’d have hit the brakes, turned around, and hiked out along that thin ridge. I wish I’d not have passed by in such a hurry. This moment still stands out as my one regret of my Mexico vacation.

As with all good things, prickly pear cactus fruit doubles as a potent metaphor. The fruit represents all good things, all things that you work for and then enjoy their satisfactions and rewards. These are the things that you dream about. The things that you remember with joy, long for with regret, or both simultaneously. You know their taste to be delicious and wonderful, succulent and satisfying, but you sometimes remember them as bittersweet just the same.

Sometimes the fruit represents dreams, goals, ambitions, hopes. Sometimes the fruit represents opportunities taken or opportunities that passed you by. Sometimes memories of a specific place—a boulder alongside a frothy mountain stream, waves covering your ankles at a secluded beach, a shaded bench in the park, a quiet corner of the library, or the bedroom in your childhood home—can send waves of feelings coursing through you, soaking you with memories, drenching you with emotions, leaving you to stand there dripping; energized or drained.

Sometimes the fruit represents a person.

Amy was such a person.

I remember the first time I really talked with Amy. We had run a few miles together and sat, cooling down and stretching, on the cool cement curb near my home. Just a dim spark from her eyes, a light touch of the passion for life in her voice, provided enough of a taste for me to recognize how much I savored the flavor that she added to my world, to my little onion.

We spent some time together over the following month. Sometimes we would talk and I would see the spark and hear the touch in her voice. Sometimes not. But I always remembered and hoped there would be more.

Amy later moved, first to the next town, then home to an adjacent state, and finally to the other side of the country. I haven’t seen her in months. From a distance, I saw someone who looked like her this past week and did a double take. I remembered the flavor she brought and how my little onion tasted so sweet for a few short moments.

I don’t know when I’ll next find someone like Amy, someone like the deliciously sweet flesh of prickly pear fruit.

I’ve promised myself to stop and turn around next time I do.