I have a new morning ritual. I cut an Oro Blanco grapefruit in half. Then I halve that half and halve those quarters: four wedges of pale yellow. I cut away the skin and thick pith at the pointy end of each piece. Then, with the aid of my fingers and at least two napkins, I peel away the bitter membrane to expose the plump heart of each segment. I eat -- juice spurting onto the table and all over my hands -- and repeat, until all I am left with is a pile of soggy yellow and white husks. I sigh contentedly as I scrape them into the trash.

Oro Blanco means "white gold" in Spanish. I think of the farmer cutting open his first fruit from the tree, juice running down the knife, little firecrackers of sweetness exploding in his mouth and in his head, trying to think of a name for this new and special variety. A fat fruit, heavy in his hand. Heavy like gold, but pale, a light yellow. White Gold, of course, his fortune growing on trees. And then, because things sound better in other languages, or at least more romantic, he named it Oro Blanco.

Or maybe he just spoke Spanish, I don't know.

I think of the time I ate miracle fruit, that weird African berry that masks the bitter and sour tastes in food. Lemon wedges tasted like they had been dipped in sugar -- different, but not revelatory, almost cloying in fact. But grapefruit, grapefruit truly was miraculous. And that is what Oro Blancos remind me of: grapefruits stripped of their harshness, sweet but with a fine edge of bitterness to keep things interesting.

I'll keep eating them until the season over, until gold stops growing on trees. And then I'll wait expectantly until next year.