My grandpa asks me, “You want to pick some satsumas?” while slowly sipping his strong, smoky coffee.I smile and nod excitedly as I finish getting my coffee ready.The sun is just beginning to glide through the tops of the tall pine trees on this crisp November morning.

A tropical tinge of orange glows among the glossy emerald leaves of the satsuma tree nestled at the corner of my grandparents’ backyard in Lake Charles, Louisiana.Steam spirals from my chicory coffee as we walk across the flat lawn.His breath glistens in the cold air while he explains that we need to pick as many satsumas as we can to keep them from the possums and armadillos, who also adore the sweet citrus.

I don’t blame them.The tree’s massive canopy spreads 25 feet.A dozen two-by-fours brace the heavier branches to prevent them from touching the ground.

It’s the grandest satsuma tree I have ever seen.An old wooden ladder rests next to the tree.I perch my coffee on the flat middle rung and lean against it with a precious satsuma.

I gently pierce the thin, leathery skin with my thumbnail, unleashing the fruit’s lovely floral, sweet perfume.My mouth instantly waters.Once it’s peeled, I tear the satsuma in half, delicately removing the velvet ropes that hold the fruit to the skin.

Slowly, I separate the plump crescents, stopping only when I find the secret segment called

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