The avocado paradox: a love story that ends in mush
I am currently staring at a fruit bowl containing three avocados. Two of them could be used to break a window during a riot. The third, which I purchased with high hopes and a gentle squeeze only yesterday, has collapsed in on itself like a dying star. There is no middle ground. There is no peace. I have successfully navigated the complexities of filing my own taxes, assembling IKEA furniture without looking at the final three pages of instructions, and keeping a houseplant alive for the better part of a decade. Yet, I remain entirely defeated by a bumpy, pear-shaped berry (yes, it is a berry; botany is weird) that seems to operate on a timeline designed specifically to mock me. This is the binary existence of the avocado. It is either a geological specimen capable of denting a countertop, or it is a bag of gray sludge. The window of perfection—that glorious, buttery interval where the flesh spreads like velvet and tastes like expensive brunches—is a myth. Or, at the very least, it is ...
