Clementines: A Repost. (Because it's that time of year...)

At last, a few markets are selling clementines in a state of nature: as singletons as God intended them to be purchased instead of in unwieldy cartons where they inevitably turn blue before we eat them all.

The best way to buy clementines, though, is in an open air German market from a vendor whose voice you can hear extolling the virtues of his clementines over all other voices in the market square. Yes, they sell fruit by day, but in the evening they are probably singing Wagner at the local opera house. Despite the cold snap in the air, a few bees still hover over peeled fruit set out to sample, and the air is heavy with the scent of oranges. You pick up a few, testing them for weight, evaluating the quality of their peel, tasting the samples, certain to buy only the sweetest, juiciest fruit. You buy one, maybe two, tuck them in your pocket, wrap your scarf more tightly about your neck to ward off the draughty chills, and hurry off to class.

The best way to enjoy clementines is like this: you are in your history seminar, in the middle of a rainy November, sitting in a large unheated auditorium in a former castle, one of more than 500 students in the class. Today, though, you are sitting next to the tall boy with the wide smile and long hair that curls at his collar. Someone you like. Someone you might like to know better.

So as the professor drones on, listing page after page of books he recommends, you take the clementine from your pocket, puncture its skin, peel it, and gently lean into your neighbor's shoulder as you offer a him a wedge. He will appreciate the distraction, and he may welcome another; and if his shoulder lingers long enough for you to notice the scent of damp spruce on his coat, or his leg accidentally presses against yours, well the world is a cold place and we should all be grateful for whatever heat, whatever comfort, wherever we may find it.