Jackfruit preserve

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

Would you like a recipe?

It doesn't start with the jackfruit.
It starts with you.

Ready?

Note book open?

Pen on the mark?

Oil your hands. Halve the fruit. Cut along the radial lines. Scoop the fruit out. Deseed, chop, boil, stir.
Sugar, stir. Salt, stir. Lemon juice, stir.
Boil, stir. stir, stir, stir, stir.
Pot in a jar. Serve on toast.

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

How do you recall the sheen of the oil?
How do you remember the symmetry of the radial lines?
How do you store the delightful stench that hits you even before the knife pierces the fruit?
How do you embalm the tenacious hold of the tenuous fibers?
How do you pot the exultation of freeing every last imprisoned fruit?

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

How do you store the tree's penance? The wisdom of the roots? The lucidity of the leaves? The passion of the rain? The love of the soil? The empty buzzing of the bees? The summer sun that pierced the fruit open with sensuous fingers?

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

Would you like a recipe?

It doesn't start with the jackfruit.
It starts with you.

With you forgetting the recipe,

forgetting to preserve;

forgetting yourself.

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

It starts with you forgetting the jackfruit.