Pineapples: The Honor System

We came across this little stand on the way back from the blowhole.  It was just on the side of the road and boasted home-grown pineapples.  I was spellbound: here were beautiful golden pineapples, without tags or stickers on them and grown on someone’s land in Maui rather than in a country I’ve never been to, then shipped to Ralph’s before they’ve ripened.  And they were so cheap, we couldn’t pass ‘em up.

The girls got out and crossed the street barefoot, Hawaiian style, lured by the dogs on the property.  They spent several minutes sniffing the bottoms of the pineapples, turning each one over and allowing their eyes to roll back in their heads and the sweet, floral fragrance of tropical fruit infused their senses.  When they’d made their selections, Kendra and I each put our $2.50 into the jar and that was it.  I like this way of doing business.

When we returned to the hotel, Raf said he’d take the girls straight to the beach and the pool, rather than go upstairs, since we already had our swimsuits on.  Marlowe said she wasn’t feeling well, so she came upstairs with me. 

As soon as the door shut, she said, “Can you cut the pineapple? Maybe I’m just hungry.”  I did and she couldn’t eat it fast enough, letting the juice run down her forearms and licking her fingers and grabbing more.  She ate a third of it and then said, “Okay, maybe I want to go to the beach.”

I get it, girl, I do.  Sometimes you have to just do whatever it takes to get the first bite.