I’m not sure what season our orange tree thinks it is, but it has started producing oranges again. My oldest brought one in a few weeks back. “The first orange of the season!”

We gathered together, cut it open and each took a piece.

Cue horrified expressions and tearing eyes. I’d never tasted anything so sour.

This past weekend, he brought another orange in. “The second orange of the season!”

“No way.” I said. “You eat it.”

“This one was on the ground,” he said. “It’s got to be ripe!”

“Sure it is.” I said. “Let’s give it to your brother.”

“I heard that!”  his little brother said from the living room.

“Oh come on,” I wheedled. “It’s an orange grown from our own tree. You know you want to taste it!”

“I will if you will.”

“Fine.”

I cut the fruit into pieces and handed one to him. We stared each other down as we tasted it. “Mm,” he said. “It’s good!”

“Mmm,” I agreed, handing a piece to his older brother.

“Really?” He stuck the wedge in his mouth. His face puckered and tears shot out of his eyes. “Aaahh!”

“So worth it,” his little brother said, spitting his orange out into his hand.

“Yep.”

I spit mine into the sink, then rinsed my mouth out.

I’m starting to wonder if our orange tree might have grown lemons this year.