The rind is firm, cool to the touch, and fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. I noticed the little pores are darker orange than the rest, the star-shaped green center where once it had been plucked from some faraway tree. There are small imperfections, soft white mottling. It has a shiny, almost greasy look. There's no smell until I dig my fingernails into the skin, releasing the essential oils as I leave little waxing moon craters on the rind.
Once we all began peeling, I could hear the rinds being separated from flesh. I took the time to peel mine in a lazy spiral, pulling off the long white strings. Now I can smell the fruit, different from the oily skin. I feel my mouth begin to water and I think about using zest versus juice and cooking or baking.
I'm reminded of living in Luxembourg during elementary school when we belonged to a fruit of the month club. Kiwis, grapes, and once a case of tangerines from the Canary Islands. Antonio ate so many that he got sick. Now as far as citrus goes, I rarely drink orange juice but occasionally I'll pick up a bag of cuties at Trader Joe's.