Avocados and the Art of Life

Whoever said, “The older you get, the more you appreciate the small things in life” sure hit the nail on the head.

If anybody had told me, 30 years ago, that someday I would have a bounce in my step from anticipation when I approached the shelf of fresh avocados in the supermarket, I would have insisted that before that day arrived someone should obtain a power of attorney over me and force me to get a life.

But here I am, and loving it. How ‘bout that avocado crop this year? Aren’t they a work of art?

In my youth, I was not crazy about guacamole. I could take or leave the guacamole dip sold in the potato chip section. I later learned that avocado, guacamole’s heart and soul, was pretty far down the ingredient list in the commercially prepared version. Apparently the manufacturer waved an avocado over the mix for appearance sake, but the real payload was guar gum, green food dye, and a lot of chemicals whose names I can’t pronounce. The result was a vaguely greenish mush that tasted vaguely of mayonnaise.

Once I tasted homemade guacamole, though, my life changed. I wanted this food of the gods three meals a day, and for a couple of snacks besides.

Imagine my dismay when I tried to make a batch of this delight in my own kitchen, only to discover that the first step was peeling the avocados.

The skin of an avocado, if you’ve never peeled one, has a texture somewhere between tree bark and rhinoceros hide. Combine this factor with the soft, buttery consistency of the inner fruit-flesh that the tough skin protects, and you can whittle on one avocado with a paring knife while continents shift around you and the seasons change.

ONE avocado. For a party-sized bowl of guacamole, you’d need to peel at least six to eight of them. Forget it. Life’s too short.

Fast-forward this story as decades pass and my taste buds remain bereft of homemade guacamole except for brief interludes in out-of-the-way Mexican restaurants.

Then, a miracle. This spring, our TV’s channel-flipper happened to settle on a cooking show, and the chef was demonstrating how to prepare...avocados!

Turns out, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Er, fruit.

Don’t waste time peeling, the chef said. Just cut the little booger in half lengthwise on both sides, down to the big hard seed in the middle, and with the slightest hand pressure the avocado separates into two halves, one of which contains the seed.

Pluck out the seed and discard it, and then it’s surprisingly easy to scrape out the avocado innards with a tablespoon. Throw the tough, empty hull-halves away, and you’re done. With a little practice, you can scoop out a dozen avocados in far less time than it takes to peel just one.

Life is good.

As I pursue my guacamole habit these days, I discover endless refinements of technique that keep the process fun.

For instance, if you buy avocados of only picture-perfect consistency (not too ripe, not too hard) you can actually remove the seed without touching it with your fingers. Stab the seed precisely in its center with the tip of a well-sharpened knife, and when you pull on the handle the seed pops loose as if by magic.

To take these culinary acrobatics one step further, you can tap the knife blade sharply on the edge of your kitchen trash container and the seed hops off the blade as gingerly as if you’d trained it. The process develops the rhythm of a symphony, or a ballet, or...

Not that I’m obsessive-compulsive, or anything.

Once you have a waiting tub of gorgeous avocado flesh, the remaining ingredients are a matter of debate. Some guacamolers (guacamolars?) use minced onion, diced tomatoes, jalapeno slices, fresh cilantro, and even the heretical addition of sour cream.

By long experimentation, I maintain that the ultimate classic guacamole contains avocados dressed only in a hint of garlic (actually, garlic juice, if you want to be picky), a squeeze of fresh lime juice, and a light sprinkling of salt.

Anything else is gilding the avocado.

And anybody who insists that if you have to break some eggs to make an omelet, you have to peel some avocados to make guacamole, is just behind the times.

But don’t take my word for it.

I’ll see you at the avocado counter. And if I’m there with my eyes shut, communing with the spirit of each fruit as I test its firmness for exactly the proper bounce with my thumb and index finger, just humor me until I’m done and I’ll be out of your way.

You’re only young once, but perfect avocados are for a lifetime.