If my father saw a blind man stranded at the curb of a busy intersection, he would stop his car in the middle of traffic and, unconcerned by honking horns and screaming motorists, get out and lead the blind man across the street.

If the season and the urge were upon him, a simple apple, grape or orange was never thrilling enough. Once, to my mother’s everlasting consternation, he brought home an entire banana tree, spiders inclusive.

On other happy occasions, we were inundated with coconuts! With pomegranates!

There are arts to eating fruits of this pedigree that are not taught in Home Economics. Like stubborn, angry children, coconuts only surrendered to our ministrations reluctantly. First my father drilled a hole in one end and drained out the coconut milk. Then he attacked it with a hammer on the kitchen floor. Only after the coconut had cracked open could we finally consume the white meat. We did this avidly. Not because it tasted all that great (I always got coconut hairs in my mouth), but because getting to it had been such an adventure.