Oh avocado, I love your gorgeous bumpy green skin, your gloriously lime coloured soft flesh, the way you spread so well on toast and somehow even go well with hummus. You are beautifully soft, buttery and delicious when you are ripe. Which seems to be for about five seconds before you starts to go brown. And after about sixteen weeks of waiting for you to ripen. What are you gestating a babycado in there or something? Ripen up, man!
But then...the joys of avocado toast, avocado salad, even avocado chocolate pudding which I insisted would be disgusting until I actually tried it. Sometimes you feel worth the wait.
I love you so much I can ignore your hipster status. I proudly ask for the insanely overpriced smashed avocado on toast option even when I know I could make the same damn thing myself at home for a fraction of the price. When my local hipster cafe takes you off the menu for being "too hipster" you know you've reached over 9000 hipster. I liked you before everyone else started liking you (where did I put my kombucha?)
And lets not even get into the price it costs to take home an egg of your creamy deliciousness. Upper middle class London yummy mummies have ruined you for me, my sweet. I feel almost shameful as I fill my basket up with you, alongside kale, your dethroned ex hipster friend (I don't care whether my friends are considered cool or not). And who are these folks mashing you up and putting you on their face as a mask? Are these people made of money? This is blasphemy. Avocados are friends, not face masks.
Any avosexual knows the perils of awaitening for the perfect stage of ripeness, judging for the perfect time to split you in half only to split open the glorious greeny brown egg to find over soft brown mush within the beautiful avocado briefcase. My spirits are broken as I debate spreading your brownish gunk on my toast and feel a stab of guilt knowing that your carbon footprint is probably the size of Godzilla's, last time I checked there was no fruit producing avocado trees in Scotland (though apparently we can grow quinoa now, thank the Whole Food Gods!) The weather here is too cold and wet for you, my delicate friend.
And then there's the joyful occasions where somehow part of you manages to be over ripe when the other parts are still rock hard. You had one job avocado.
Avocado, it's not you it's me. It's time I moved on to less high maintenance produce items, I'm too skint to be filling the kitchen up with you anyway. Plus, you're apparently destroying the pine forest in Mexico. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so angry. Don't look at me that way. I love you, but it's not you it's me. We have to break up. Except maybe when I go out to eat and someone else is in charge of your ripeness. Then maybe we can have an avocado booty call, no matter how much extra the menu charges for you.
Oh, and I just heard that people started serving lattes out of your skin. Too far, internet. Too far.
PS: Did you know the Aztecs originally named the avocado “ahuacatl”? It also means testicle. Chew on that. Or, maybe don't.
