Matters of taste

Today I bought a fresh pineapple for myself. It was the first time I’ve done that, mainly because It’s something that I never think of buying, even though I like it. It was on my mind because my sister-in-law was cutting one up last night and gave me a piece.

Not surprisingly, there’s a background story to all this.

Not long after I arrived in New Zealand, Nigel took me out for lunch to a Japanese restaurant in Takapuna on Auckland’s North Shore, not all that far from where we lived. I’d never been to one before, and I liked it. In fact, I ate everything—except for the fresh pineapple they served, sliced vertically, and again horizontally to make it easy to eat, and served on the skin/rind/whatever it’s called.

“Aren’t you going to eat your pineapple?” Nigel asked me. “No,” I said, probably screwing up my nose at the thought. “I don’t like pineapple.” Nigel persisted. “Have you ever had it before?” I probably looked a bit incredulous. “Of course. My mother gave it me.” Nigel barely paused. “FRESH pineapple?” He had me there; my mother gave me only tinned pineapple. “Well, no,” I said. “Then just try it!” Nigel told me, just as my parents would’ve when I was a kid.

So, that day I had fresh pineapple for the first time ever, and I ate all of the pineapple on my plate. Then I ate all the pineapple on Nigel’s plate, too. And I’ve liked it ever since.

Even so, I never think of buying it. Until today. Nigel would be happy about that.

I’m not promoting the brand, btw—it was the only one the supermarket sold. Obviously, I wasn’t compensated in any way whatsoever to include the photo.

This post is a revised version of something I posted to my personal Facebook this afternoon.