Chokos
Chayote,
pimpinela, pipinola, christophine are just a few names given to this cousin of
the melon.
A bunch of them appeared at our
local farmers’ market, like schoolmates you haven’t caught up with for decades.
In
my formative years they sprawled by the hundreds, tangled amongst passionfruit
hanging from our paling fence.
Served
boiled, we often had a half each for dinner, a nob of butter melting where the
seed had once been.
Whole
and hanging from the vine, with a softly prickled lime green skin,
they
looked poisonous,
like
those large pods that hang from trees whose broken branches ooze with Selley’s
wood glue sap.
I
remember their bland and innocuous flavour, something we grew accustomed too,
familiar and ubiquitous as squabbles between parents.
There
were rumours back then that Cherry Ripes were made from chokos. That food dye
and flavouring were added, then the whole sickly bar-shaped mixture coated with
chocolate.
Strange
to think that now I’d pay dearly for a choko when for so long they were
plentiful and free for the picking.
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