Sunday, September 13th, 2020

These fresh dates are a revelation. When I first saw them in produce shops, I had no idea what they were: hard tan fruit, an inch or so long, still attached by slender threads to flimsy branches. I had brought some home in the past and eaten them. They were crunchy and somewhat sweet, with a large seed in the center. I got another bunch of them a week or so ago. They got lost on my kitchen table. Today, they have emerged from behind a forgotten plastic bag. They have turned a deeper brown and gotten wrinkled. Some are further along than others. None are moldy. I try one that looks roughly like it looked when it was new. It’s quite good, a bit softer and sweeter than before. I decide to risk one that is further along. It’s now mahogany brown with deep creases. I pop it in my mouth and gently bite down, wary of the pit. I am amazed. The inside has turned into a soft paste, with a texture rather like apple butter. The flavor is smoother, with a deeper sweetness that lingers on my tongue even after I have swallowed the fruit. This is the missing link, the stage between the fruit that I get fresh here and that which I had known in the States. Dates apparently don’t grow on their trees as sticky, tooth-challenging masses that look like vegan waterbugs. They go through stages, and end up in that form, in which they are easily packaged and shipped and are found in stores. I try another of the darker ones. It’s equally good. I’m tempted to eat the whole set of them. Most haven’t reached their finest form yet. I can wait.