When I was 14 my dad came home with a fresh pineapple (or as fresh as you can get in Missouri). It was the first time I ever had fresh pineapple, and it was amazing. Between me, Dad, and my three brothers, it was too-soon devoured.
But there was still plenty of pineapple core left, just sitting there on the cutting board. As if guessing my intent, Dad cautioned:
“Don’t eat that core.”
What did he know? The problem was that the pineapple core looked so good.
So when he went to do something else, I tried a little piece; it tasted even better than the pineapple itself had. So I ate the rest of the core.
That night I had the absolute worst stomach pains I had had in my whole life, and I haven’t had its equal since. It felt like some was taking my stomach and wringing it out like a wet towel. With a vise. Remember that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where Mola Ram makes him drink that stuff out of the skull, and he lay convulsing all night? I wished I could have had it that easy.
So why didn’t I listen to my Dad? I don’t know.
Just because he spent a year in Hawaii didn’t mean he knew anything about pineapple.
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