I live in a place that, when revealed to the right group of people, during the right time of year, is almost always answered with a heartfelt “I hate you.” But you see, no matter how much you detest my latitudinal position, no matter how many months of abuse you’ve endured in the cold storage of other climes, I assure you, I can erase all that animosity with a single California Honey mandarin from my local farmer. Unfortunately, you have to come get it.

The look on the face of my sister, slowly thawing during her visit from snowblown Denver, as she blinks open her eyes in my bedroom Sunday morning says it all. Beth used to live here, and we both know that this morning in Hollywood is sacred. Sure, church bells rally the faithful, Scientologist scuttle down the Boulevard to their posts. But the farmers market is our tent revival.

Soon, in the dead of winter, we’re sweating, clutching vanilla iced coffee, taste-testing Haas vs. Bacon vs. Fuerte avocados dusted with lime and salt (Bacon was best). We dig a mix of Russian Bananas and Purple Peruvians, choosing the fingerling potatoes purely on what color combination would look best in our homefries. Berries? We’ll take one pint of each; blue, black and rasp. After some deliberation, we decide that weight always wins over size for our mandarin selections, but we should get at least 20 to make sure. Beth eats one right away, two with breakfast, and perhaps as many as five when I wasn’t looking.

The hate, I find, comes in right about here, when my longtime so-called friends send me angry emails about my ability to wear flip flops while popping strawberries in the sun on Valentine’s Day. Last winter, my brother Luke—who until recently was incarcerated at a college in the bleak southern Missouri city of Rolla—demanded that I send boxes of citrus weekly to atone for my sins. But all I can think about is that postcard they’ve used to lure people here for a century: the palm trees, the orange grove and that ridge of snowcapped peaks in the distance. This can all be yours. You just have to come to California.

At the end of her visit, a newly-tan, 100% defrosted Beth sifts the non-winter elements she’s collected over the weekend from her bag. Sunblock she doesn’t need for a few more months goes back in my medicine cabinet; borrowed shorts head back to my drawer. But I see her making room for something else. She could have gathered up a truckful of disposable clothing at our brand-new Forever 21, bought a cheap pair of bug-eyed sunglasses from the kiosk in the mall. But she takes the best part of our Los Angeles winter back to Denver’s permafrost. She takes avocados and mandarins as souvenirs.

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 14, 2008 at 5:56 pm and is filed under eating, greening. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.