Sab'res

There are two ways to contend with summer heat in Israel.  First, do as little as possible; second, ingest cold and sweet foodstuff.  I was sitting outside my brother’s home; doing the first, contemplating the second, when across the lawn I saw Pnina, the attractive next-door neighbor.

“Hi Tsahi, would you like some sab’res?” she asked.

I love rhetorical questions from beautiful women, but what made this offer especially noteworthy, is that Pnina may be the only Jewish person in the Land of Israel that harvests her own prickly pears.

Like most Israelis, I love sab’res.  The chilled fruit is the perfect summer treat.  Although the contradiction of soft flesh and hundreds of hard seed, presents a chewing challenge, the reward is sweet and juicy.  During the middle of summer, the fruit turns an inviting orange color, and is ready to eat.  As children growing up in the semi-rural town of Tivon, we would brave the heat, venture out to the nearby cactus patch, and collect as much as we could of the delicacy.

The procedure sounds easy.  Attach a tin can to a broomstick, use this tool to pluck the ripe sab’res off the plant, peel, chill (Optional step), and eat.  However, by the time you arrive at the site, all the easily-accessible fruit are, most likely, gone, and you will need to penetrate the heart of the patch.  Protective clothing and a careful approach may get you past the long dangerous thorns without suffering too much damage.  Inside, the air is oppressively stagnant and hot. Despite your careful maneuvers, you will disturb the stalks, and launch millions of tiny needles into the air.  These miniature missiles will stick to your sweaty skin, and make your life miserable for hours.  With pride and anticipation, you emerge from the hot inferno, carrying a basketful of the golden bounty.  Prior to peeling, you need to shed the fruit of its remaining thorns by rubbing it in soil, yet despite the vigorous effort, as you peel, some thorns will succeed in lounging themselves in your fingertips.  Finally, it’s time to enjoy.  Most often, we consumed the fruit before it had a chance to reach the refrigerator.

This task, even for us kids, had a dubious pleasure-to-pain ratio.  Thanks to the neighboring Arab village, we were able to have the pleasure, while avoiding the pain.  Each day, an Arab vendor, leading a donkey laden with sab’res, passed on the streets of Tivon.  We would wait for his ringing voice, and run down to meet him.  With grace and precision he would chop off both ends of the fruit, cut a slit down its length, part the slit with his calloused fingers, and let the juicy delicacy roll into our anticipating little hands.  I would look at him with admiration, believing that Arabs are somehow tougher than us, and immune from the thorns.  Immune or not, all across Israel, the sab’res trade remained exclusively in Arab hands.  Many years later, the street vendors disappeared.  Sab’res emerged on supermarket shelves, but their scrumptious flavor was gone.

Pnina, bucking the cultural trend, learned the art of picking sab’res with impunity. She routinely harvested the cacti that grew on her lot.  Her offer of peeled and chilled fruit was an act of great generosity.  Unfortunately, in my rush to devour, I forgot my duty as a blogger, and neglected to ask how she acquired this rare skill.