One hot day, I decided to savor a grapefruit. I plucked the chilled fruit out of the refrigerator and cut it into eight semicircular slices. I held each slice between the fingers of both my hands, but did not immediately bite into it. Savoring involves all the senses.
I examined it first. I observed its chatoyance. I saw how light glistened off the moist carnelian facets of this gem of a fruit. I spread the rind so that sections of the meat separated from each other, and I inhaled the citrus scent that sprayed from the parting sections.
I tasted the texture and tanginess, but without yet biting into it. I just ran my tongue along the glossy, bittersweet surface.
Then I bit it. And the piquant tartness bit back. It made my lips pucker.
I chewed slowly and winced as each astringent droplet coursed down the back of my throat, burning like a Fourth of July sparkler. It forced me to pause in mid-chew, to allow the bitter to fade into sweetness.
I swallowed, and each fleshy lump of citrus burned and cooled my stomach, all at the same time.
That is how I immersed my hot summer day in zingy cool sweetness.
(This post is meaningless. But I hope it helps you feel a little cooler today.)