How to Battle an Avocado

In my latest quest to find something to fill the blank space beside the Mexican rice on our dinner plates, I spied a solitary green orb on the top shelf of the refrigerator. Thinking a touch of green, though a bit anemic in color, might contrast with the rice, I took a deep breath and once again prepared to do battle with an avocado.

Our History

Like many of you, I am reluctant to buy avocados more than one or two at a time when the going price is up to $3 each. Because I buy them just now and then, I tend to forget about them in the refrigerator. So I've learned to look for fruit that's fairly firm when purchased.

Avocados and I have a long and embattled history. I don't care how many cooking shows I watch, I can never chop up one of these little devils in anything approaching a neat fashion. I am firmly convinced that the chefs on TV hire staff members who do nothing but slice beautifully carved avocados and arrange them artistically on tiny plates.

I, on the other hand, end up with as much avocado on my hands as on any plate. Once I make the first cut, this nasty fruit has been known to fly through the air and hit the kitchen phone. Nevertheless, each time I want to serve an avocado--or its surviving parts--I try to develop an air of optimism and set about the task systematically.

The Extraction

After rinsing the avocado (why? I'm throwing away the rind), I place it on a paper towel to dry while I gather my . . . um . . . implements. These include three paring knives of various sizes, an ice cream scoop, a teaspoon, a soup spoon and a cutting board.

I also keep a wooden mallet handy in case all else fails and I have to beat the whatever out of any parts of the avocado I can salvage for guacamole. A roll or two of paper towels is also typically useful.

Before I cooked the Mexican rice, I decided to extract the avocado from its rind. Previous efforts had already convinced me that the fruit's name should have remained alligator pear.

Using my smallest paring knife, I began by making a cut from one end of the rind to the other. When the knife somehow managed to get embedded in the seed inside, I had to wash and dry my now-sticky hands to be able to pull it out. My feline surgical assistant looked up at me from the kitchen floor, a smirk plastered across his face.

The knife finally emerged from the seed.

I managed to separate the halves of the avocado. However, in the process, about 10 percent of the fruit splattered and ended up on the whiskers of the surgical assistant, who hissed and rubbed his head frantically on the just-vacuumed carpet in the dining room.

Grabbing my next knife, I set about actually peeling this avocado. While I was doing this, the smaller paring knife slid into the garbage disposal along with the rind. Rummaging through kitchen drawers, I spotted a pair of tongs and was able to extract the knife before any damage.

It occurred to me as I started to peel that it would be a lot easier task if I first removed the seed from that half of the fruit. So I reached for a soup spoon. Too big. I was beginning to wonder if this avocado was even ripe enough to eat. The teaspoon proved too small. I suddenly remembered I had a grapefruit knife with a bent tip.

Bingo. The seed was out. Let me be perfectly clear that anybody who can remove an avocado seed with his or her bare hands is a far better person than I.

The Arrangement

Once I had peeled this pesky avocado and managed to salvage about half the mangled fruit, I needed to figure out how to make the slices look appealing on hubby's plate and mine. This was not so easy, given that some "slices" were a fourth of an inch long.

Eventually, I just chopped them up as best I could--keeping that wooden mallet close by--and stuck them on the side of each plate to look like a garnish. After adding the steaming Mexican rice, it was impossible not to notice that the piles of avocado looked like pieces of celery that had died.

So I whipped out a dozen tortilla chips and tucked them a bit under the mushy green pile. I added a dollop of sour cream to the top and a spoonful of salsa to the side. Hubby ate it all and never said a word.

The Battle Continues

Obviously, the avocado won again. The score is probably around 97-0 by now.

But I haven't given up. The next time, I'll use a really big knife--one that would make a butcher proud. The battle of the avocado isn't over yet.

Sources:

http://www.hort.purdue.edu/newcrop/morton/avocado_ars.html

Personal experience