Like I said before, I love the fruit. But cannot in my dreams, imagine cutting it with the flimsy kitchen knife. How my room mate manages it, I hardly know, but I am beyond such achievements. But, eating it, is another matter altogether. I look at the small, neat cubes, sprinkled with white salt and sugar crystals, the juice dripping down one side, and I cant wait to pop it in my mouth, bite into the tangy flesh, fighting the urge to have more.
I wondered what I would do with the one in my bag, as the rumi was absent, and no one to teach me the nitty gritties of maneuvering a pineapple. I came back. Changed into war gear, clutched the knife in my hand, and opened the bag, half expecting it to throw its brazen edges at me. And it lay there, with its green, overgrown crown, its yellowish brown, pockmarked skin, ready to be murdered.
And tied innocently to its neck, was a white card, with pineapple cutting instructions on it. Step wise, with pictures.
A good night was had by me.
If only the rest of my life would be similar. Instructioned. Easy.