Here is another story about delight 

that could be interpreted as a story of limited resources – but that would not be the whole truth. Growing up, we rarely had bananas or oranges, those exotic fruits were way too expensive for our family. Only the affluent could afford such luxury items back in the 50’s in Europe. 

Come the coldest month of winter, my mother will perform twice a week a morning ritual for us children. Carefully she squeezes two small halved blood oranges to the last drop, and then distributes the deep red liquid into three tiny glasses, filling them about half an inch high. Papa gets a bigger glass and it is filled higher than ours. I enjoy playing with the thin left-over orange peels whose heavenly fragrance fills our kitchen. On these early winter mornings, it is cold in our small flat. The coal stove is used for heating and cooking. I don’t know about my siblings, but taking tiny sips of this precious juice is like drinking a magic potion and entering a different realm. The dark red and rust orange fibers on the tongue, the intense notes of sour and sweet, it tastes like warm blood-red sun. Exuding the flair of faraway lands. Suddenly I am not cold anymore, I know it will keep me from getting sick – I feel super strong.

 

How utterly precious and beautiful, how delightful for a child who knows that Mama must save every penny, make good decisions, basically be a magician. Clearly the blood orange ritual is about asking the gods to protect us all. The girl knows that the world is filled with mysteries she might understand someday. But really – sixty years later – I don’t understand most mysteries. Despite my innate curiosity and philosophical leanings, I am often ultimately content to leave the world unknowable, mysterious. I though know, orange juice is not to be drunk in huge quantities if you want the protection of the gods :)

 

For the past 40 years, California has been my home, and oranges are still precious medicine to be treated with respect – now as then, here as in Germany. Below at the gate, I planted an orange tree, and I treat the delicious fruit like my memories of the old country. I eat the last fiber, then cut the skins into small pieces and dry them to be used for tea. Even now sixty years later, my mother’s ingenious caring and creativity warms my heart….