In Morzhime sometimes it happens: you wake up in the morning at his modest two-bedroom villa, to crawl slowly on the veranda sipping,
head thrown back, and suddenly you realize that absolutely do not want you now to go to lunch or to Sea Horse,
any cut in Chapora of freshly squeezed mango juice or dragged to the beach to the ocean. And like you, on the contrary, coconut. For that, actually,
and do not need to go far, because here it is - hanging on a palm tree growing right in your summer cottage that is literally a stone's throw from the veranda.
It is good that it happens in the middle of January: Coconut palm tree hanging on now ripe, it's time to collect. There is another problem:
coconut - This is not some gooseberries; she, you bastard, tall and strong. And fuck her to the ground nagnesh.
And not obtryasesh her because palm - This is not an apple tree, not a pear and plum.
A coconut, meanwhile, wants stronger. So you have to get out and call the owner of the villa, to the specially called
designed for such cases with a large butcher knife Nepali to Nepali climbed a palm tree, he knocked down a few coconuts, went downstairs,
picked fruit prettier, blew his saber domes, waited until you drink milk, and finally raskherachil nut into two halves,
the better to scrape the soft flesh of milk.