I grab the small ball of sunshine, a clementine, then I grab another. Take two, they're small. The peel is lumpy, dimpled. I know it is like a too-big coat, space left between the outer layer and the inner core, the sweet, juicy fruit that needs this oversized protection.
But that is why I love clementines, too. All that space means that ill-fitting cloak is easy to rip off, and I want little effort standing between me and my citrus wedges.
I peel both clementines in a few seconds, the sounds of the peel ripping similar to tearing paper. As I peel, I make sure to crush some of the skin, sending little jets of citrus oil into the air, a tangy, slightly bitter and sweet smell, all at the same time. It is a bright scent that belongs only to these fruits and comes during the darkest of winter months as a little reward.
I break the globes of fruit into individual sections, all laid out in front of me now. I pop one section at a time into my mouth, not chewing at first, but mashing the fruit, getting at the juice first, then chewing to enjoy the sweet and slightly tart flavors.
Winter can be a very very good time.