I am not a huge fan of fruit for the most part. There's something about the juicy plumpness of fruit that repels, something about its queasy reproductive associations is occasionally disturbing. Fruit dangles from trees, fruit hangs in bunches on bushes, garish sexual ornaments. Ripeness, juiciness, sticky juice in rivulets down your chin. It's a bit overdone, even grotesque. My mother used to give me pomegranates, which I enjoyed but also felt slightly repulsed by. Those little interior compartments with their seed occupants were like echoes of some primal nightmare, evoking the horror of nature's mindless and implacable fecundity. This all relates to the psychology of disgust.

I love mangoes, however. I never eat fresh mangoes. Freshness to me is an overrated concept. I hate witnessing people picking over fruit in the supermarket, poking and sniffing the strange rinded orbs. I have no idea why something is automatically considered better in its freshly picked or slaughtered condition. Purity and freshness are not self-evident virtues. I tend to favor mediated forms, second-generation versions, elements that have been processed a bit or adulterated to soften their edges and make them blander, or mixed with other things to attenuate the overall effect. There will be no party in my mouth if I can help it. More like a casual get-together. At this time my mouth doesn't need any more excitement.

I love fruit in desserts. Fruit and pastry, that's what I like. Apricot Frenzy. Raspberry Rebuke.