ode to the undisgusting alligator pear

When guacamole was gross, sushi was sickening and yogurt was yucky. "What is that green mess that looks like it's already been eaten? Food should not be that color." Yes, those were the sentiments of pre-adventurous me. I scoffed at sweet potatoes and shuddered at squash. OK, so I still do that last one, but there are a few regions of hell that haven't yet frozen over.

The year was 2007, and I was particularly trusting of a certain chef's palate. Said chef convinced me not to mind mushrooms, but not quite to see the point of peas. One day he insisted I inspect and dissect a glop of guac at our local Mexican feasting facility. This green goop sported soft chunks of avocado, and didn't resemble runny refuse, so I gave it a go. Lo' and behold, I found smooth texture and spice, yet a cooling sensation. And thus I became a believer. And then a curious waitress.

I started paying attention to how the sous chefs gently twisted and sliced and spread crescents of lime-colored lusciousness atop dishes I'd deemed inedible. Regardless of what the avocado accompanied, I watched with wonder the ubiquity of uses. Yesterday on a sandwich, today on a salad, tomorrow churned up with red peppers.

Two years later, I fancy myself fancy when I feed on this cute, festive fruit. I spy it and squeeze it, I buy it -- can I freeze it? I chop it and eat it with ease. I create guacamole with tomato and peppers, or slice it across bread with basil. In restaurants it ravishes sushi with salmon; indeed I'll lean toward whatever meal features this giant, fresh berry. Unless, of course, it involves olives or beans.