In France, I were at war against the clementines.
However, every year I wanted to patch up and try one to see. But each time it was the same disappointment. Juicy and tasteless or so full of glitches that there are more than flesh. At the end of patience, I finally décidé de les rayer une fois pour toutes de ma carte alimentaire.
Depuis que je réside en Thailande, ou les fruits sont étincelants de sucre, je me suis propose de tenter la chance.
J’étais déjà passe outre mon appréhension des visages exotiques qu’offrent certains spécimens particulièrement surprenants, et ramboutans et mangoustans ont finis par me convaincre de revenir sur mes positions.
En fait, il ne s’agit pas vraiment de clémentines en Thailande, ni de mandarines (je n’ai jamais su faire la différence, y’en a-t-il?), mais d’oranges qui en ont la taille et un peu le goût. Elles sont oranges et vertes et se pèlent aussi easily than their cousins.
At first, even if it seemed that the Thai oranges had a better chance of satisfaction, I had to admit that some were not the height. And now the specter of a fracture is hoisted again to my taste.
But in the habit of eating more fruit, I began to take the time it takes to peel them, prepare them.
Soon, eating a fruit became a full-fledged activity. Pause for a few moments dedicated to the conditioning of the food, and the nature of things about me. A wave
time during which you focus a little, but that does not let his mind wander, or we have the time or project themselves, or turn around.
So we can quite enjoy the "fruit of our effort," and we savored the moment of encounter with a taste that we know, but that does not stop us please and seduce us.
This teaching, which continues to mature in my mind, allowed me to accept the bad taste of some specimens, and not formally provided to me.
In Paris it's decided, I reconnect with the clementines.
I will take time to appreciate them.
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