Just ate an absolutely divine custard apple, sitting at the table reading bits of the Sun Herald. Scooped all the skin and seeds into our little bench-top compost bin, noticing how large and satisfyingly glossy the seeds were. Now, what did those seeds remind me of? Oh yes, loquat seeds. I remember, as a child, sitting up in a loquat tree eating the loquats. I remember loquats being around. They must be a bit of a Mediterranean-climate, Western Australian thing. They were at a neighbouring farm when we lived at Gin Dong near Bussleton. Was there a loquat tree in the back yard at 10 Hill Street, Carnarvon? I can imagine one into that scene, near the never-used aviary behind the laundry. But it might be imaginary. I’m remembering the taste. I’d like to find one and eat one. I’m sure they’re in the “exotics” section of the supermarket, where bits of food have come to us from the far ends of the globe, emitting carbon all the while.

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