The Art of Cleaning Prickly Pears

I have been enjoying an abundance of prickly pears from my grandmother's garden. I find that cleaning them is rather therapeutic.

 I stand at the table and clean buckets full with extreme pleasure. The neighbors keep asking me if I am afraid of getting pricked and say I'm a good nikokera; basically I'd make a good wife. That is all they seem to think of here and that I need to find a husband. I've tried to explain to them I came here for vacation and I want to enjoy myself. Ok, for the record this is not to imply a man would not foster a time of enjoyment during my vacation, but the locals have put it upon themselves to determine who you should marry. Ah, the simple life. If only it was this easy, pick a spouse and live happily ever after. I can't blame them, it's what they know. However, living outside of small island and having lived in a number of places I know it is not as easy as they may think. I keep telling them sure, find me a groom and secure the date at the church next year and all I will do is show up. Have it all ready and I'll be there, and while we're at it, have five grooms for me to choose from. Please know I am kidding, and at this point I have decided to agree with them so they will get off my back. 

Where was I? Oh yeah, the prickly pears. Here I am cleaning a bucket full of the deliciously sweet gems.