Yesterday I ate an apricot. Now I know this may not sound very impressive, but it was a big deal. Growing up I loved fruit. I would’ve taken a strawberry over a handful of Nerds any day. And I loved it all. Any variety of fruit found in the produce section of a northern Indiana Kroger store, inevitably I thought it was delicious. With one exception, an exception that was often vocalized: the apricot. But you see, the thing is I can’t remember ever eating an apricot. I must have at some point, I assume, for such a strong aversion to have developed, but I can’t conjure up even the slightest memory of what this fruit could have tasted like. And what if I’d never even eaten a fresh apricot? Perhaps the only fruit of such a name to ever pass my lips was from a can? I had to know. Was my hatred founded? And if not, what other long-held beliefs might be challenged as a result of that discovery? What if, after twenty odd years, I found that I did indeed like every fruit I had ever encountered? Would that lead to other shocking self-discoveries? Would I become a fan of tattoos or animal prints or CBS sitcoms? Considering that as of last week I am now the owner of two string bikinis—one with sparkly silver skulls—I think anything could be possible.

As for the apricot, the flavor was OK, kind of like a more floral, perfumed peach. But the texture was all off, mushy, mealy, wholly unpleasant. At least I tried.

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