It’s funny what little mundane activities can bring back an equally mundane memory.

This morning, I sat down to eat an orange. I don’t eat oranges very often because they’re just too much work. I prefer my food easily accessible. But, it sounded a good idea to ward off the cold that these nasty frigid temperatures often threatens. I always have a little debate on how to eat the orange. Do I try to peel it into sections, do I try to juice it (usually the winner because it seems like less work), or do I cut it in half and use the grapefruit spoon (a spoon with serrated edges) I bought R. when we moved in together.

I decided on the cut-in-half method, which I probably haven’t used in years. And, slicing into that big orange, I was brought back to my Grandma T’s kitchen. The dark brown cabinets (one’s I choose for my house because they reminded me of her kitchen), the blocky linoleum, and the perfect scent of crisp orange.

She got out her goose-shaped cutting board, sliced two oranges in glad, but them onto brown-rimmed plates and carried them to the table. I sat on the hard-backed oak with the green, tied-on cushions. She sat at her chair at the head of the table, and patiently began to show me the way.

First, you cut around the outside of the orange. Then, you cut each section. Lastly, you take your spoon and dig up from the bottom, pulling perfect sections of sweet orange into your mouth.

This little lesson led to nothing life changing. It’s a method I rarely use in my rare orange eating. And yet, the image is clear as day.