FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Green Oranges, Devil’s Farts and Other Culinary Lies

From chlorophyll‑soaked citrus to desserts that sound contagious, here’s why I no longer trust anything in my kitchen

— Written with heart, humor and a stubborn refusal to stay silent —

Yeah. I just don’t buy it. Photo by Daniel Lee on Unsplash

As I sat pondering life’s imponderables, I glanced casually into my glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

I turned to no one in particular and wondered, “Why is an orange orange?” I do a lot of that lately — pondering to no one. It’s only when that “no one” actually answers back that I start to worry.

Logic says an orange is an orange because, well, it’s orange. Makes sense, right (though it does call into question why a lemon isn’t a “yellow”)? Except for one little problem. Many oranges, it turns out, aren’t orange after all. They’re green.

For crying out loud! How can something that spurred the name of a color (the fruit was brought to Europe 300 years BEFORE the color orange was named in its honor), be so stinking wrong?

So, I checked online. Turns out ripe oranges in many parts of the tropics and points south look more like a head of lettuce than a tasty bowl of sherbet. It has to do with chlorophyll. In those steamy climates, green chlorophyll never breaks down to reveal the orange underneath. Essentially, nature forgets to paint them.

But here’s where it gets even crazier. Some orange producers actually put chemicals, gases, icy air, dyes, wax or other agents on their oranges to turn them… orange!

Once you learn oranges are green, you start questioning everything. Next thing you know, you’re eyeing the pantry like it’s plotting against you.

Might as well sell me headcheese that isn’t cheese, or sweetbreads you wouldn’t want in your toaster or — God forbid — Rocky Mountain Oysters. Don’t want to know. Don’t want to try.

And then, as if that’s not bad enough, there’s Spotted Dick. Sounds like a disease, doesn’t it? I guess they like it over in Britain as some sort of dessert. Gotta hand it to ’em: they have a sense of humor.

Let’s see if my wife does.

“Hey Tricia, let’s have some fish balls for dinner. With Spotted Dick.”

“If you serve me Spotted Dick, I’m calling a priest.”

“Oh, and a side of hushpuppies.”

“No! Not the dogs.”

“Dad!”

“Just hush, my little puppy. Daddy won’t hurt you. Pass the ketchup.”

“He’s kidding, girls. You are kidding, aren’t you?”

“And don’t forget the pumpernickel.”

“Why? What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. If you like ‘devil’s farts.’”

“Ron!”

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“Must’ve been the green oranges I had for breakfast.”

Nothing is as it seems these days. Cardinals don’t fly to church. Elephant garlic has sprung a leek. I had a tomato the other day that would’ve made a Goth relish its blackness.

I guess in a world where oranges are green and desserts sound like medical emergencies, the only safe bet is to stop looking too closely at your breakfast.

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If you enjoy domestic espionage, Midwestern captivity or the ongoing saga of a man trying to stay upright in a world that refuses to cooperate, follow me. I write daily dispatches from the front lines of ordinary absurdity.