Pineapples

I love pineapples. The first time I ever had fresh pineapple was my first year in Japan. Growing up, my mom never bought fresh pineapple citing there was too much waste and effort for the price. I have never really enjoyed canned fruit--pineapple included. But fresh pineapple is a completely different story. However, I quickly learned that pineapple is a natural laxative and can play havoc with your system. This fact and the ensuing discomfort dampened my enthusiasm for pineapple. These days, I enjoy it in moderation.
Yesterday, I bought ten pineapples for the Library Luau--which was a success by the way. I had some volunteers cut up 7 of them into slices--no need to waste anything when eating slices what I grew up calling Indian style. Over a few slices, I recounted some of my memories of pineapples in Hawaii. First there was the annual Waihiawa Pineapple run. The prize for finishing is a pineapple. C, P, and I did the run. We had a great time running through Waihiawa in the fresh morning air inhaling the delicate waft of pineapple. I still have the t-shirt.
Then there was the run that we did through a military area that one of the runners got permission to run through. We came out of the mountainous brush into the flat vista of pineapple fields on the North Shore. This was the first time, I smelled pineapple laden air. It was like ambrosia--which I believe has pineapple in it. Despite the heat and dust, I was energized to finish the run.
And then there was the time, that my boyfriend did a run that was too tough for me and I was laid low with a heel spur to boot. He asked me to drive his white convertible Camero to the end of the run so that we wouldn't have to mess with getting a ride back to the start. So unsure where we were going, with the top down, I followed two other cars down Kam Highway. The fresh smell of pineapple exhilarated me. Life was good and the way it should be lived. Me in Hawaii, driving my very cute boyfriend's convertible listening to the stereo enjoying the heavy scent of pineapple. BUT THEN we turned down a red dirt road near Dole Plantation and proceeded through a maze of dusty red dirt roads. Dust began to kick up, I didn't have anyone cell numbers, and the top was down. I couldn't stop. For the next 5 miles, I watch dust pile up in the car as I ground grit in my teeth. After a nightmarishly long haul we stopped in a scenically quiet area to set up for the finishers. I got out of the car, removed my sunglasses to reveal my red-raccoon ringed eyes. The people I were following crowded around the disaster my boyfriend's previously white Camero. A chorus of "Oh, boy Fermin is going to kill you." Yes, I sadly responded, he will and he will never let me drive the car again. Everyone dug around in the cars for extra towels, t-shirts and anything else that could be used to wipe out some of the dust. An hour later the car still looked like a disaster but definitely much better.
Although, I never did drive the car again, he adventure his car and I had in stride. The next day, I insisted on paying for a car wash and detail. However, for the following month every time I buckled up, I got a little red sash from the seatbelt across my shirt as a reminder. I learned not to wear white while I dated Fermin.
A couple of slices of left over pineapple are awaiting me. Cold juicy pineapple. Yum.