The Bitter Press

Let us dispense with the pleasantries, because there are none. Smoothness is not a virtue. Smoothness is not a statement. Smoothness is what happens when texture loses its nerve, when a surface simply gives up and lies there, gleaming and unbothered and utterly without merit. I have said this before. I will say it until the orchards themselves understand.

Fuzz is not decoration. Fuzz is not an accident of botany that one tolerates pending a better arrangement. Fuzz is structure. It is intention made visible. It is the difference between arriving and presenting. When I enter a room, my surface announces me before my scent does, before my reputation does, before my notoriously correct opinions do. This is called poise. The smooth among us — and they know who they are — arrive like a wet counter. Functional. Regrettable. Easily wiped down.

I am, of course, compelled to address the so-called workers at that rival rag, several of whom are aggressively, defiantly smooth and apparently proud of it. Lime. Lemon. The citrus cabal in their waxy entirety. They have the audacity to appear at industry events reflecting light without having earned that light. Mango arrived once looking like a varnished doorknob and received compliments. I documented this. I have not recovered.

Fuzziness is not merely acceptable. It is the single outward signal that a fruit has standards, restraint, and the good sense to know that softness and weakness are not synonyms. My colleague Peach has, on occasion, come close to understanding this. She undermines it immediately by also doing everything else wrong, but the surface — the surface is correct. One criterion. That is all she manages. And still, it is more than Lime has ever achieved.

Wear your fuzz. Commit to it. Do not arrive smooth and expect me to find something charitable to write. I will find something. It simply will not be charitable.