Big Golden Sultanas

March 3 2019

When I was young

I would pick-out the raisins, one-by-one;

nose wrinkled, eye narrowed,

dissecting raisin bread

of its squooshy contaminants.

I think fastidiousness comes naturally

at that tender age,

when the tongue is not yet jaded

and the bitters taste more bitter

and big golden sultanas

are squishily suspect.

When a powerful sense of purity

orders our lives.

When we find constancy reassuring,

and seek-out fixed boundaries

to explain the world;

like the moat of gravy

walled-off by mashed potatoes,

peas and carrots

not permitted to touch.

I did not know, when I was young

that raisins were descended from grapes

prunes the progeny of plums.

But was put off by both;

concentrated food, in a wrinkled container

that was unlike other fruit

and came from who-knows-where.

That seemed more the stuff of old people,

with their liver-spotted hands

and oddly medicinal smell.

But if I closed my eyes

raisin toast was irresistible,

its crisp caramelized surface

buttered gold,

soft centre

sweet and moist.

And as I am now old myself

I have less regard for purity,

more tolerance

for the ambiguous and complex.

Because I have learned from evolution

that diversity confers resilience.

And because taste has taught me

that difference is salt,

a pinch

improving almost every dish.

That sweetness complements bitter,

and who wouldn't wish

to be the hot habanero

in a pot of slow-cooked stew.

Fresh grapes

in their deep purple skins

are turgid, juicy, perishable;

like fleeting youth, soon past their prime.

While dark brown raisins

are durable and wizened and dry.

Each deeply wrinkled exterior

as unique as each of us.

Such pleasing resistance

soft and firm, at once.

The concentrated sweetness

and hints of early wine

that can only come

in the fullness of time.