R is for rotten.
Depending on your vantage point of the lone banana relegated to the bottom of the fruit bowl.
"It's not ripe, it's rotten," my husband said. His morning cereal topped with sliced ripe banana is a religion. His cereal sat ungarnished as my husband pouted into the cavernous fruit bowl.
But I am a renegade when it comes to siding with those who religiously refuse to ingest the seemingly "rotten" – I peeled that however badly blemished banana right there and then, and ate it in front of, not only my husband, but my petrified children. For them, the rotten is, because of some tiny nick, the otherwise perfectly unblemished ripe apple.
Then there is the other rotten. My mother's favorite. "Oh, that's so rotten!" she loves to say when someone steals a parking space just as we're waiting to turn into it. Gramma, at least, can be perfectly right about the rotten. Though it can make her too ripe for reaping revenge on the ruthlessly thoughtless parking-space stealer, if only with a rattling of her rather bony fist.