I let it sit on the counter, sometimes far too long, and it spoils. But, most of the time, I buy a pineapple and it sits on the counter calling to me every time I walk into the kitchen “cut me, cut me!” with its unwieldy spiky-pineapple-top; there’s nothing else like it. With its brawny skin and slippery insides. Its too-thick core.
The real thing that prolongs my procrastination is the amount of waste. It makes me uneasy. It feels wrong: so much left on the cutting board, unable to be used. Is this really how you cut a pineapple? I’ll never know.
Waste and all, when the deed is done, I feel like a new woman. One slice at a time, I’ve turned an impossible fruit into uniform, simple little triangles of sweetness. The counter is clear and I have a glass container full and ready for quick-use. Is this some kind of metaphor?