The other day my daughter sliced an apple and changed my world.
“There is no apple core,” she said. “You get all the parts of the apple in a single slice.”
My mother taught me how to halve an apple, quarter it. Then, with thumb pressing the near tip of the apple, draw the knife carefully beneath the core and lift it out.
I remember how magical it felt to learn this skill, as this mother, my first one, was too ill to offer many lessons in the kitchen.
I’ve been cutting apples this way my entire life.
Wash. Halve. Quarter. Cut out the core.
So B, standing there, handed me a translucent, heart-shaped slice. (This is the artist daughter who is an expert on apples. After all, she’s on Granny SmithBook.)
There was an extra crunch to it, an interesting texture in the middle – seeds, possibilities, all good. I could swallow them all.
Now I can say that an apple is an entirely new thing to me: all of a piece. It’s as if I’ve never known this fruit.
When we go along doing one thing as we’ve always done it, we miss out on the sweetness, the crisp newness, the surprise and delight.
So what is your apple?
Spark: Watch for someone doing an ordinary thing in a completely different way than you are used to. It could be loading a shopping cart, folding a sweater, washing dishes. Try the new way. Write about it.
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