As I sit here, having just finished my winter grapefruit, savoring the tingly succulence of my newly awakened tongue, I think of all the times I’ve eaten fruit when my experience was hindered by the presence of overzealous seeds.
Call them “pits,” call them “pips,” either way you label them, these little necessities of life have remained a thorn in my otherwise comfortable critique of genetically modified foods and the idea of “civilization” as a whole. I am aware of the role they play, and yet still sometimes loath their presence. I get frustrated with interrupted bites, but am aware of the lesser, worse option: edible laboratories. And yet, still, seeds are an example of the tiny points at which my allegiance to comfort rests on the idea that the world around me should be redesigned to fit my own desires.