Forbidden Fruit [memoir]
I run my hands across the bush clinging to the chain-link fence, fingers caressing the glossy leaves. A sheen of sunlight reflects on the surface of a slick, red fruit. Red’s my favourite colour, so it must be yummy! Grandpa puts them in his cooking; he wouldn’t do that if they didn’t taste good. I clasp the fruit and draw it to my nose, bringing the part of the bush with it. I cringe at the dirt-like scent. Why does Grandpa eat these?
I release the fruit; the bush springs back against the fence as a car roars past.
Then an idea sparks in my brain: some fruits smell funny on the outside while being really yummy on the inside. I bet this is like that. I reach into the bush and snap the fruit free. I stare at its long cylindrical shape, salivating at the sweetness awaiting inside. I open my jaws, slide it inside, then chomp on the end. I run my tongue over the slippery surface, the taste of dirt filling my mouth. Wincing against it, I chew the flesh. The taste grows into a pungent one. I open my mouth to spit it out, my tongue and the lining of my mouth burning.
I cry out, dribbling bits down my chin and into the paddock’s tall weeds. The burning spreads to my face, sweat prickling on my cheeks. I reach into my mouth and scrape away the gooey mess, hoping the sensation will stop. But as each passes, the burning intensifies. I scream, wanting so bad for it to stop. The noise only intensifies the burning.
I dash across the paddock, past the growing chromatic stain on the shed, duck under the mandarin tree, and scurry towards the tea-tree-lined gravel driveway.
Grandma looks up from weeding a flower bed. ‘Au bah, what is it, mimi?’
I try to talk but the moment my tongue touches the roof of my mouth, the burning swells. I point to my lips.
‘You ate something?’
I nod.
‘Au bah, what?’
‘Ch… ch…’
She gasps, eyes widening in horror. ‘Chilli?’
I nod again.
She shakes her head. ‘Why do I tell you not to touch Grandpa’s chilli bush when you won’t even listen?’ She grabs me by the arm and yanks me towards the white-brick house.
Tears stream down my face, their wetness flaring up my burning cheeks. I want to apologise and take back my actions, but I can’t.
Grandma throws open the brown flywire door and we run inside, door slamming behind us. The carpet we dash over is as red as the chilli I ate. Despite her small frame, Grandma lifts me and plonks me onto the edge of the sink. She whips a glass out of nowhere, fills it with water, and presses it into my hands. ‘Allez, drink.’
I lift the glass to my lips, surprised she’s letting me drink from the good glassware, and pour the water into my mouth. The cool liquid sloshes over my fiery tongue and inner mouth. I sigh, picturing it washing the heat away. Instead, scorching scalds my mouth.
‘Allez,’ says Grandma, ‘is that better?’
I shake my head.
‘It makes it worse?’ Panic is evident in her voice.
I nod.
She groans and scans the kitchen as if seeking some other remedy. My chest tightens. If she doesn’t know how to stop it, will this burning ever end?
Her eyes widen with sudden realisation. She snatches the box of mint chocolates from the breakfast bar that I wasn’t allowed to have for lunch, clutches several, and unwraps one, shoving it into my hands. ‘Allez, eat.’
I bite my lip, suppressing the giggle rising in my throat: if I hadn’t eaten the chilli, I wouldn’t have gotten to taste this sweet. I shove it into my mouth, praying for the blistering heat to stop. Grandma keeps unwrapping chocolates and giving them to me. A thick, sweet taste coats the lining of my mouth while the mint cools the burning sensation.
It’s not until she’s given me three or four that she pauses and asks, ‘Is that better?’
I pause mid-chew to check. All that remains is the cool whisp of mint melting in my mouth. The taste is heaven. I shake my head. ‘I think I need one more.’
I release the fruit; the bush springs back against the fence as a car roars past.
Then an idea sparks in my brain: some fruits smell funny on the outside while being really yummy on the inside. I bet this is like that. I reach into the bush and snap the fruit free. I stare at its long cylindrical shape, salivating at the sweetness awaiting inside. I open my jaws, slide it inside, then chomp on the end. I run my tongue over the slippery surface, the taste of dirt filling my mouth. Wincing against it, I chew the flesh. The taste grows into a pungent one. I open my mouth to spit it out, my tongue and the lining of my mouth burning.
I cry out, dribbling bits down my chin and into the paddock’s tall weeds. The burning spreads to my face, sweat prickling on my cheeks. I reach into my mouth and scrape away the gooey mess, hoping the sensation will stop. But as each passes, the burning intensifies. I scream, wanting so bad for it to stop. The noise only intensifies the burning.
I dash across the paddock, past the growing chromatic stain on the shed, duck under the mandarin tree, and scurry towards the tea-tree-lined gravel driveway.
Grandma looks up from weeding a flower bed. ‘Au bah, what is it, mimi?’
I try to talk but the moment my tongue touches the roof of my mouth, the burning swells. I point to my lips.
‘You ate something?’
I nod.
‘Au bah, what?’
‘Ch… ch…’
She gasps, eyes widening in horror. ‘Chilli?’
I nod again.
She shakes her head. ‘Why do I tell you not to touch Grandpa’s chilli bush when you won’t even listen?’ She grabs me by the arm and yanks me towards the white-brick house.
Tears stream down my face, their wetness flaring up my burning cheeks. I want to apologise and take back my actions, but I can’t.
Grandma throws open the brown flywire door and we run inside, door slamming behind us. The carpet we dash over is as red as the chilli I ate. Despite her small frame, Grandma lifts me and plonks me onto the edge of the sink. She whips a glass out of nowhere, fills it with water, and presses it into my hands. ‘Allez, drink.’
I lift the glass to my lips, surprised she’s letting me drink from the good glassware, and pour the water into my mouth. The cool liquid sloshes over my fiery tongue and inner mouth. I sigh, picturing it washing the heat away. Instead, scorching scalds my mouth.
‘Allez,’ says Grandma, ‘is that better?’
I shake my head.
‘It makes it worse?’ Panic is evident in her voice.
I nod.
She groans and scans the kitchen as if seeking some other remedy. My chest tightens. If she doesn’t know how to stop it, will this burning ever end?
Her eyes widen with sudden realisation. She snatches the box of mint chocolates from the breakfast bar that I wasn’t allowed to have for lunch, clutches several, and unwraps one, shoving it into my hands. ‘Allez, eat.’
I bite my lip, suppressing the giggle rising in my throat: if I hadn’t eaten the chilli, I wouldn’t have gotten to taste this sweet. I shove it into my mouth, praying for the blistering heat to stop. Grandma keeps unwrapping chocolates and giving them to me. A thick, sweet taste coats the lining of my mouth while the mint cools the burning sensation.
It’s not until she’s given me three or four that she pauses and asks, ‘Is that better?’
I pause mid-chew to check. All that remains is the cool whisp of mint melting in my mouth. The taste is heaven. I shake my head. ‘I think I need one more.’
