Albicocca--The Fruit of Florence

The produce aisle. Just between you and me, I adore the produce aisle. Orange carrots, deep purple eggplants, pale green celery—this place is as much a feast for my eyes as its offerings will be for my stomach. I touch everything, enjoying the textures and weight in my hands. Walking through the fruits, I stop at a bin labeled ‘APRICOTS’. I run my fingers over them. ‘Almost as soft as I remember,’ I think to myself.  

-------

The Hotel Kraft’s rooftop oasis, complete with trees, pool, and a patio with views of the Duomo, is the setting for today’s pranzo (lunch). The early afternoon sunlight filters through the rooftop garden’s trees. Sitting at one of the wrought iron tables, Danny is almost across from me, a little to the right. Both of us are wrapped in the fluffy white towels provided by the hotel, I am interested to see what Danny has brought in the paper sack. He pulls out a handful of palm-sized fruits, yellow-gold like everything else in this city.

‘It is an albicocca,’ he says to me as he passes me the fruit. ‘Do you like them?’

‘I’ve never had one,’ I tell him. I turn the slightly fuzzy fruit in my hand, recognizing the color and shape from my many grocery trips in the U.S. ‘In English it is called an apricot.’

I don’t know why I have never eaten an apricot. In America I tend to reach for apples or berries as a snack. I wash my face with an apricot scrub, but have never considered eating one. Danny’s surprise at my confession makes me eager to eliminate this void in my diet.

Utterly delightful is all I can think as I bite into the fruit. I eat it slowly, enjoying the subtle sweetness. My face must have shown my approval—Danny smiles at me as he reaches for his second.

‘Albicocca, you said?’

‘Si.’

I add the word to my ever growing ‘Favorite Italian Words Ever’ list. Grapes may be the stereotypical fruit of Italy, but as I begin eating my second albicocca, I think apricots are most like Florence. It has all the features. It is the same color as Tuscan sunlight. Smooth and soft like the divine leather goods of San Lorenzo. Satisfying in taste, but not so overpowering in flavor that you tire of it. Not too big, not too small; a maneuverable size. And after just one experience, you are left with a seed that grows into a desire to have another go. It satiates all of your senses, exceeds all of your expectations, and leaves you pining for more.

-------

Back from my reverie, I select one out of the basket and place my Florentine fruit in the cart. More than one, and I may not be able to stop myself from heading to the airport.