I have to admit I'm a fruitaholic.
About seven years ago, Gord, our friend Clifford, and I took a trip to England, renting a little apartment in a Lancashire town called St-Anne's-on-Sea. (It was recommended by a friend's sister. It's picturesque and accessible, but a retirement community; when we cleared immigration at Manchester, the officer said, "Oh, St-Anne's. My grandmum died there.")
I took the train to London for an overnight jaunt, and at Harrods purchased three perfectly ripe Alphonso mangoes. My neighbor from India had talked about the Alphonso for years, rightly calling it the "king of the mango." Before heading back to St. Anne's, I wrapped each of these treasures in a couple of pairs of socks. I guarded my suitcase, and on my return carefully placed the mangoes on the kitchen counter. As we were having our coffee in the living area the next morning, Clifford walked in from the kitchen, squeezing the life out of the Alphonsos. "So what are these things for?" he asked.