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# Homegrown
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/homegrown/
- Published: 2026-07-31T16:53:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:06:27.000Z
- Description: “Homegrown,” an homage to Maui Gold pineapple and to the beloved gifter who knew enough to send sunshine in the mail, written Friday, July 31, 2026 poem 212 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Fruitopia," by Diana Ludwick © 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Culinary, Eating and Drinking, Generational, Homage, Nostalgia, Of Place, Poems, Reminiscing, Absolutely Not, Crowns, Elders, Fibers, Fruitopia, High Summer, If you love someone enough, July, Mainland, Maui, Maui Gold, Parcels in the Mail, Pineapple, Playa Bowls, Summer, Yes, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

An enormous brown box appears on my door cam  
I can't help but wonder what's inside.   
I see my teen drag it into our home, close the door.  
  
Hours later, back at the house,  
I see eight pineapples standing on the counter  
lined up like a Playa Bowls establishment,  
a brown parcel ripped to shreds on the floor.  
  
A gift from our elders, from my husband's homeland.  
The potency of a Maui Gold is hard to render in words.  
A fragrance so pure, it serves as a neural highway   
back to his sacred island.  
  
I lean in, take a deep whiff.  
The row of crowns are at attention,  
poised to saw my face off, while their  
brown and waxy green bodies prickle with armor.  
  
With a patience   
we had to muster and hold together,  
my child and I await the arrival  
of the main recipient.  
  
When he crosses the threshold,   
an hour later, he exclaims,   
"Did my Dad send Maui Gold?"   
and before we can answer:  
"I'll grab the knife."   
  
And then we stand,   
our three to their eight,  
one row facing the other,  
and we flank him as he takes   
to dispatching the first offering.  
  
He holds its spiny top and twists, hard,   
like breaking the neck of a chicken.   
He throws the greenery into the trash;  
picks up a bread knife with his other hand.  
  
He shaves off the leathery skin   
flexing a muscle memory   
forged in childhood.  
Turning and cutting,   
whirling and slicing.   
  
Soon the cutting board   
reflects gleaming mirror images   
of golden fruit chunks that ease   
into each other, soft and ready.  
  
We descend upon the prone tidbits   
and soon our hands are sticky  
with our greed, grabbing   
piece after piece of bright,   
warm, sweet fruit  
bringing them to our mouths,   
eating, oohing,   
and going back to the dwindling pile.  
  
We fall silent   
as we each enter our own trance,   
transported back   
to the volcanic island   
that nurtured our loved one into the man   
who stands here feeding us today.  
  
Were I to be asked yesterday,   
"Does it make any financial sense   
to ship ripe pineapple   
from Maui to the Mainland?"  
I would have answered:  
Absolutely Not.   
  
But in this dripping, lush,   
fragrant paradise that I am steeped in,   
mouth slick with juices,   
teeth lodged with pineapple fibers,  
cloaked in a sunshine and balmy breeze,  
I would amend my answer to:  
  
If you love someone enough   
to send them their home in a box,  
then the answer is:  
Yes,   
yes,   
yes.