Grape vs Cherry: A Culinary Conundrum of Biblical Proportions

Just for fun..

Some decisions in life require gravitas. Signing treaties. Naming a child. Deciding whether or not to weep during The Snowman. And then – there’s the moment I find myself in far too often for someone who claims to be a rational adult – stood in my kitchen, dressing gown gaping, socks like old dishcloths, staring down at a small white bowl with one single question gnawing away at my sanity like a moth in a wool museum:

Do I eat the grape or the cherry first?

It sounds simple. But so does crossing a road, until you’re halfway across and a bus labelled ‘Existential Crisis’ careers around the corner, honking wildly.

The grape – oh, the grape! Slippery little orb of innocence. Green as envy, round as a bishop’s belly, smug in its taut little skin like it knows it’s the safe bet. Reliable. Gentle. The Switzerland of fruit. No stones, no sticky aftermath. A fruit so inoffensive it could host a daytime antiques programme.

But then there’s the cherry. That sultry, lascivious, lipstick-wearing temptress of the orchard. Blood-red and bloody difficult, with a stone in its belly like it’s smuggling secrets. Every bite is Russian roulette. One moment you’re transported to a midsummer dream, the next you’re spitting a kernel into your hand like some uncouth Victorian at a cricket match.

And yet – I love them both. It’s like choosing which of your identical twin uncles to push from a hot air balloon when the weight limit’s been exceeded. The grape offers peace, predictability. The cherry offers chaos and juice-splattered passion. One is a well-mannered librarian. The other? A flamenco dancer with a flick knife in her garter.

I chose the cherry first. Big mistake. Started strong – bursting with flavour, bold as brass – but the grape after? Tasted like a damp handshake. Like chewing on anxiety. Like regret in edible form.

So next, I reversed it. Grape first. Like slipping into a warm bath. Calming. Sensible. But then the cherry came along – bam! – like a fireworks display at a funeral. Too much. Too soon. My tongue wasn’t ready. It was like inviting a clown to a eulogy.

Now I sit here, paralysed by indecision, fork in hand like some sort of fruity Hamlet. To pit, or not to pit? That is the question. My dog watches from under the table, judging me with the same expression I once saw on a priest who caught me eating cheese during Lent.

Some say “Life is a bowl of cherries.” Liars. Life is a bowl of cherries and grapes, and you’re never quite sure which will explode in your mouth and which will simply disappoint you like an undercooked aubergine.

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I ate them both at once. Shoved the grape and cherry in my mouth together like a lunatic speed-dating the entire fruit aisle.

Reader – it was sublime. Sweet meets sour. Soft meets firm. Peace meets war. It was like biting into diplomacy. Or kissing your nemesis. Or doing the cha-cha with chaos.

And that, dear friends, is the moral of the madness. Sometimes in life, you don’t choose between the grape and the cherry. You don’t weigh the merits. You don’t dither like a pensioner at a self-service checkout.

You eat them both. At once. With vigour. With folly. With the giddy abandon of a man who’s had too much fruit and not enough human contact.

Because the world’s gone mad – and frankly, I’d rather go with it, mouth full of juice, laughter in my belly, and a stalk stuck between my teeth like some demented druid with a five-a-day fixation.

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Perhaps you could Buy Me a Coffee to wash them down with?