Around the world, people have been locked down for a solid two months. Many of us (barring those who are keeping the world running) have had the time to nest, reflect, reorganize and reimagine what life looks like now and what we’ll want it to look like after. The rituals of our days have changed with many more people in one spot. And many of us have had to opportunity to rekindle or perhaps, go deep in exploring the relationships in our lives.
Of course, this lockdown has given way to thousands of memes. People find ways to be funny when they discover new things about their spouses, parents, siblings and friends. Humour has in so many ways kept the world ticking, too.
My favourite memes of course, are the ones that come out of the shared experience of Asian cultures. And my favourite of all of them have been the “cut fruit” jokes. Things like, “are you even an immigrant if your mom doesn’t interrupt your Zoom meeting to bring you cut fruit”
Mostly, cut fruit has been the purview of mothers. My own would bring a big platter of orange slices, apples, peaches, grapes, plums or whatever else was on hand for a snack in the evening. And if it was the summer, chili and lemon usually accompanied it (try it, if you haven’t - it’ll change your life). Or perhaps a gigantic bowl full of cubed watermelon. Or mangoes, where we would fight over who got to suck all the juice off the pit. All three of us would crowd on a couch to watch terrible shows on TLC or gossiping and sometimes even just silently eating.
Cut fruit is the ultimate demonstration of love. Our parents cut our food up for us when we’re young, long before we have the manual dexterity. It shows that they don’t want us to suffer through the tough pits and peels, the seeds and the “icky bits” like the butt end of a banana, to get to the good stuff. It says, “I took the time to peel, slice (or dice), pit and arrange this for you so you wouldn’t have to work hard.” For anyone who has tried it, it is intensely laborious. Wrestling with slippery mangoes, projectile grapes across the kitchen floor. Cut fruit is a warrior’s battlefield full of frustration and seeds.
Then it’s no wonder that those who care about us most are willing to go to such lengths so we can literally enjoy the fruits of their labour. Just the other day, as we visited my grandmother-in-law, as we left the house, she handed us a bag of cut pears - for after the fast because we’ll be hungry. You’re never too old for cut fruit. And you’ll never say no.
As we approach the end of the holy month of Ramadan, our home has been extra quiet. No sports, not many meals during the day (except for me, always eating cashews for whatever reason). And lots of time to think about things. I’ve also - though I’m not a mother, only graced with the title of Big Sister - started cutting fruit. So we have something quick to grab between Zoom meetings. And so my husband has something he can eat with his breakfast when he rises at 5:00 to eat before his fast begins.
Though none of us know how much longer we might have to be in our homes and how slow the creep back with normalcy will be, I for one, will continue to reflect on everything in my life. And when we finally surface at the end of the tunnel, I plan on asking myself the one question that I ought to have asked about all the decisions and people and labour in my life so far: Is this worth cutting fruit for?