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Eden’s Oranges
- University of Arkansas Press
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Eden’s Oranges The women didn’t ask any questions, just loaded them from the relief crates in aprons and hurried home. Because of their size, one woman said they were oranges picked from orchards in Eden, and the name stuck. Momma cut one, smooth peel open, pink like candy on the inside. I spit the gristly, sour mush into my hand. The next day Eden’s oranges lined every windowsill in camp. Some boiled them like potatoes and made marmalade. Others scooped out the pulp and fried it. All week we waited for them to ripen. The day they started to mold, I sat at the table with a bowl of beans, spreading lard on the last tear of bread. Momma thanked God for Roosevelt and Hoover, for our unworthy bodies and His precious fruits, smiling after every sickly sweet wedge. 33 ...