I Dream of Tangerine

Though decades have passed since the days we used to spend with our grandmother in her familial home, there are some memories that remain just as strong as they ever were. One particular impression that has been indelibly etched into my taste buds is my grandmother’s tangerines, or as we call them, afandi.

In general, fruits were just fruits, fine as things go but nothing special - and for the most part compulsorily eaten to appease the elders. However, the afandi were different. These bright balls of joy were a mainstay in sitto’s (or grandmother’s) house, and were somehow always in abundant supply. Any time my grandmother would unwrap one of these little jewels for us to eat, my excitement could not be contained. Nowadays, this reminds me of something my mother says, and which I have no doubt is absolutely true: that “just by cutting a tomato, sitto would make it more delicious.” There was something about how she handled the fruit, her experienced hands guiding the rind in perfect concentric circles around its flesh to reveal the sweet treasure that lay within. All that remained was a happy child inexplicably satisfied by the least liked food group, asking for more and generously complied with by his beloved grandmother.

One fateful day, I discovered the mystery behind what seemed like an infinite supply of mandarins. I was in my grandmother’s room, which was already something of a faux pas, when I spotted a small door at the back that I had never seen before. Already having trespassed and feeling more unruly than usual, I resolved to find out what lay behind the hobbit-sized portal. An orange glow filled my eyes. Sparkling all around me were boxes upon boxes of afandi, laying on top of each other like a dragon’s hoard, a physical manifestation of my grandmother's care and love for us and the things we desired; a huge cache that could never be consumed by a single child in countless sittings.

Well, one could try…

Special contributor: Aziz Masry