Zimtapfel

Blended cold with the pulp, it is the entire Brazilian milkshake in one step.

Two custardy fats from the same tropics; together the grain in the flesh disappears.

The flesh has almost no acid of its own; a squeeze keeps the sweetness from going flat.

Round vanilla sugar sits directly on top of a fruit that already tastes like dessert.

Whipped in, it turns loose segments into something that holds a spoon shape.

Warm heat cuts a pulp with nothing going for it but sugar and perfume.

A grating on the cut fruit is an old Caribbean habit, reading like a warm spice on custard.

Acid the sugar-apple never had, dropped straight into the same bowl.

Milky nut fat against grainy custard; blended, nobody can tell where one stops.