The Orange

An orange.  An orange!

C’mon Grandma!  After all, it’s Christmas!  Where’s the fudge?  How ‘bout some bon-bons? I know I saw you icing a cake.  An orange.  Really?

I stood there with my orange.  It made my hand cold.

I said I was hungry but it was Christmas and Christmas is about cakes and apple pie and coffee and brownies and Pfeffernüsse and turnovers and petite-fours and gingerbread and Pavlova and icing and cookies and pudding and an occasional candy cane (maybe) and fruitcake and cider and pumpkin pie and eggnog and butter tarts and cider and donuts and Trifle and æbleskiver and rice pudding and those little chocolate Santas wrapped in printed foil and hot chocolate and whipped cream and marshmallows and that funny cake that looked like it was cooked in a jello mold (the one with all the raisins) and marzipan and banana pudding.  Sugar plums!

Nuts. I could have some nuts. Instead of the orange.

Ahk!  Give me a bowl of rocks, why don’t ya!  C’mon Grandma!

Here’s an apple.

An apple?  Can’t you at least bake it first?  You know, chunk it full of brown sugar and let it swim in butter for a while in the oven?

You can have an apple, or some nuts, or the orange.

Aw, man!

Here’ let me cut the orange for you.

No, don’t cut the orange. I want it peeled.

Let’s cut the orange and we’ll put it on a plate.

No, Grandma. C’mon. Don’t cut th . . . I want it peeled . . . here, let me . . . Don’t cut . . .

Here you go. Nice wedge for my Grandson.

Don’t do that, Grandma.

What, honey?

Don’t say that stuff, “for my grandson.” I’m not eight.

That’s right.  You are twelve.  Now sit here at the table . . .

I want to eat it outside.

It’s cold outside.  Just pull up a chair here, honey.  This is your grandfather’s chair.

I want to eat it in the den, by the fire.

Let’s eat it here, so you don’t drip and get sticky.

Aw, c’mon.



Oh, Alright.



You know, I miss my grandmother.

And I missed the fact that she loved me through that orange.

That was the best Christmas treat I ever had.