It's funny how your self-image changes as you grow up. When I was little, I thought I was some kind of lime, then as I grew and ripened I realised with dismay that I was just going to be a lemon with bad skin.
No need to be sour, I thought. I might not look particularly beautiful but I might make great salad dressing, or perhaps lemonade, or even lemon drizzle cake.
Then, last week, as I'm sitting in the tree minding my own business, my buddy on the branch next door happens to mention that we're not lemons at all but etrogs - which are apparently a kind of Jewish lemon. Does that mean I'm going to end up in chicken soup or something? Should I start studying for my barmitzvah? So many questions.
Ok I've been picked and I'm on my way to market. I'm a little sad that I won't see my friends any more. I shall miss their zest for life and pithy comments. On the plus side, I have been chatting up a very sweet orange.
I'm a little confused. I was expecting to end up in some kind of kosher shop but I'm now surrounded by religious Jewish guys some of whom are touching me - it's all a little seedy. One bloke just squeezed me until my pips squeaked. Just as I'm beginning to freak out about the whole business, a kindly looking chap buys me and takes me home in his Volvo. It's quite roomy but I prefer Citroens.
My date says that her name is Myrtle
I have found love (or should that be lulav?). It's funny, my date is actually a bit of a date palm, mixed with a couple of branches from other trees. She says her name is Myrtle.We have this strange attraction - it's like we were meant to be together. I ask her if she fancies coming to shul with me.
Life seems to have settled into a daily pattern. I am living in a pleasant little box and Myrtle has her own one next door. Every morning, we are woken up, taken to synagogue and, there's no other way of saying this, shaken around a bit, before being put back into our boxes and then taken home. These Jews are weird. Maybe this is their way of making salad - if so I'm a bit worried that they all might die of starvation.
It seems the shaking thing is over – I don't think I'll ever see Myrtle again. She rustled her goodbyes and that was that. I'm in segments over the whole thing. However I'm still hoping that my time will come to be elevated into a marinade of some kind (although I'm not sure I want to be stuffed up a chicken's tuches - that seems a little undignified).
Great news - I'm going to be preserved! At first, I thought that they were just taking the pith but apparently it's true - the next time you hear from me, I'll be marmalade.
As imagined by Simon Round
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