Another bonus of going down to Chinatown yesterday afternoon for a massage was that I realized that because it’s April, it means it’s mango season. Mangoes will be at their peak in Chinatown, as would fruit like jackfruit. As we walked along Canal, all I could smell was that wafting, sweet and rich scent of jackfruit beckoning. I haven’t picked jackfruit meat out of an actual jackfruit since high school, and I remember quite vividly how sticky and disgusting the process was. I had to have the fruit, though; it was cheap and smelled perfectly ripe. The innards of a jackfruit are like glue, and not polite white Elmer’s glue that washes off simply with soap and water, but the type of glue that persists even after scrubbing an abrasive all over your hands. It’s okay, I thought in my head as I made my half jackfruit purchase. I’m bringing this six-pound baby home. It will be worth it.

Well, I spent about half an hour taking out all the jackfruit meat and scrubbing my hands with salt and soap over and over. Chris washed the dishes and complained on and on about how hard it was to get the jackfruit stickiness off the cutting board and knife. “No more jackfruit in this house!” he exclaimed. “This is pleb work! I’m not doing pleb work!” I insisted I like jackfruit and that it’s tasty. “You can eat it, but no more picking it out in this house!” He yelled back.

Well, he obviously doesn’t like it as much as I do.