Seth and Samidh visited me last night on the occasion that our mutual friend Aaron was spending the night at my apartment.

Aaron was in the city to celebrate the end of his exam period at Princeton, where he’s studying for his Ph.D. The four of us had met at MIT, where we lived on the same floor in our dorm and bonded from many nights staying up playing board games.

To celebrate the Chinese New Year, and this gathering, I took out the durian I had bought in Chinatown on Friday. The “King of All Fruits” weighed in at six and a half pounds.

As I expected, Seth and Aaron frowned as I placed it on the table. Samidh was less fazed, as he had seen the fruit before. He helpfully remarked that there are signs inside subways across Singapore and Malaysia bearing the words “No Durians.”

I cracked the durian open, and exposed the pod-like fruits lining the walls of the interior shell. The fragrance immediately escaped, and blanketed the room. By this point, Aaron and Seth were bracing for the worst. At least they were polite and didn’t get all squeamish at what some consider as an offensive odor.

Aaron and Seth gave up after two licks of the yellow pulp, and even the enlightened Samidh quit after eating only half of his share. I, on the other hand, devoured two fruits, then packed the rest into the freezer.

The smell of the durian lingered in the room as the night crawled away, and we talked about our lives and played Taboo.