Grapes

My pony and I loved to visit certain neighbors when the grapes were ripe.  We galloped over to those whose arch lattices were laden with concord grapes — little old ladies and farmers who loved to see us coming.  We must have been cute.  Because they always let us eat their grapes.

The memory of riding into the shaded, fragrant vines comes back to me in spades.  We were little, he and I.  So my hair did not get tangled in the emerald arch as I zeroed-in on the bunch we wanted.  Ponderous load of grapes.  I pulled them down on Blackie’s withers.  He arched his neck around to get a sniff.

We feasted, hidden in the leaves.  What I remember was the first grape bursting on my palate.  The tang of stout skin ripping open to flood my mouth with robust, floral symphony.  Such a beautiful taste is God’s work.  It can be none other.  Down to the seeds that remind an eater of how new plants are born.

Tonight I had some grapes.  I picked up a bunch of seedless concord grapes at the store. Excited to relive the sensation of a concord grape, I popped one in my mouth to much disappointment.

When man tampers with God’s design, we are left with a perversion.  These grapes had a bland, sweet taste.  Devoid of tang.  Devoid of signature concord flavour.  They didn’t even smell right.

They had no seeds.  But they didn’t have any flavour either.  Genetically-modified plants are bastardizations of Eden.

Eschew genetically-modified produce.  It is an abomination.  And an insult to our taste-buds.  Blackie will back me from Pony Heaven.

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