(the Scene is Set, the Table Laid.)
Pineapples.....
I well remember the days when we would crawl out of our tiny burrow to
scavenge for the pineapples which had fallen to the forest floor during
the night. Then we would drag them back and down into the depths of the
burrow where we would set about skinning them and filletting them ready
for the feast.
When evening drew nigh (which was hard to guess from fifteen feet
underground) we'd set alight to the great heaving pile of logs which we'd
stored throughout the long and bitter winter. Then we'd toss a few scraps
of the pineapple's bloody skin onto the fire and yelp for joy as the
purple flames jumped and danced up to the ceiling, pirouetted, and
then left through the appropriately marked "fire exit".
Father and mother would each skewer a slice of pineapple flesh (being
careful to avoid simultaneously skewering an olive 'cos they were for the
VIPs) and hold them out into the flames until they were piping hot,
whereupon they would quickly pull them out and plumb in a new bathroom
accessory, such as a bath or a lavatory bowl. Occasionally one of my
siblings would be mistaken for a piece of pineapple, and as a consequence
some of the taps about the burrow bear a remarkable resemblance to
anatomical forms.
The fire would die down towards morning. Then, while the remaining family
members gorged themselves on freshly roasted pineapple pips, father would
tell stories of how he hunted the rare and beautiful pineorange long, long
ago. And slowly we would all fall asleep.