As most of my family have in recent years developed characteristics common to the North American Foodie, the durian was already known to us - though never actually seen, or tasted. Or smelled. Durian is a fruit that grows in Southeast Asia. It is large and heavy, covered with sharp spikes, and those who choose to comment on its heady aroma - what I've come to call the Creature - usually wind up with, say, a comparison with the smell generated by the deepest segment of Orson Welles' large intestine, if it were to be unearthed six weeks after his death, immersed in a slurry made from medical waste and half-digested onions, then consumed and finally deposited by a moose with Crohn's disease.

Though the poor durian's reputation is always proceeded by its own reek, the consumption of its meat is a different story, altogether. This description put forth by a British naturalist is so tender it nearly makes me weep:

The five cells are silky-white within, and are filled with a mass of firm, cream-coloured pulp, containing about three seeds each. This pulp is the edible part, and its consistence and flavour are indescribable. A rich custard highly flavoured with almonds gives the best general idea of it, but there are occasional wafts of flavour that call to mind cream-cheese, onion-sauce, sherry-wine, and other incongruous dishes. Then there is a rich glutinous smoothness in the pulp which nothing else possesses, but which adds to its delicacy. It is neither acid nor sweet nor juicy; yet it wants neither of these qualities, for it is in itself perfect. It produces no nausea or other bad effect, and the more you eat of it the less you feel inclined to stop. In fact, to eat Durians is a new sensation worth a voyage to the East to experience. ... as producing a food of the most exquisite flavour it is unsurpassed.

Thus, I was happy to arrive at my father's house with a large durian under each arm. I purchased them at Truong Thanh, an Asian market at 25th and Nicollet. We found that yet unopened, the durians produced a quiet, fruity smell that could only be detected in their close vicinity - and was actually quite pleasant. So the durians sat, under the Christmas tree. Each day I would inspect them several times for any sign of a crack in the shell, which would indicate ripeness.

It happened late in the evening. The smaller of the two had developed a crack, a whiff of which now indicated the olfactory demon within, which had taken possession of the poor fruit, like the family dog suddenly set upon by rabies. We placed the durian on the counter and gathered around it. I seized either side of the crack and the fruit sprang open unexpectedly like the alien in Independence Day, and we chuckled nervously like Brent Spiner, performing the autopsy. After removing half of the fruit's spiny jacket, we surveyed what looked like two undeveloped baby dinosaur fetuses which seemed to be made of scrambled egg, as the air in the room was quickly tainted by the Creature - which took the form of something dead and rotting. A glass of water sitting nearby began to bubble and turn brown. Emboldened by the euphoria of finally becoming acquainted with this object which we had thought and talked about, we surged ahead and manipulated one of the gooey lobes onto a plate. Picking apart, we found two hard brown lumps - each of which looked like the pill given to Westley by Miracle Max in The Princess Bride; it much have been a durian seed which restored his life. Finally, we tasted.

This would be the traditional point at which to describe the flavor, but there is very little I can say; it merely tastes like durian. How would you describe something with which there is no comparison? How would you describe the color blue, or the sensation of cold? I can say that the texture is irresistible - very smooth and custardy. The flavor is extraordinarily complex, and develops dramatically as the fruit is worked. It contains a small amount of what is detected in its odor, and a larger portion of what tastes similar to onions, though at the same time a number of pleasing tones can be detected. With so much happening all at once, it's difficult to develop an attitude toward the fruit as a whole - I loved parts of it, and detested others. To eat durian is without question a challenging culinary experience.

We had varying amounts - some just a taste, though my sister and I each had quite a bit. We shot a video of it for Andrew Zimmern. The Creature lingered. After consumption, the aspect of durian that remains is the onion taste, which is about as pleasant as it sounds. Water, crackers; nothing would erase it. Before bed, in an act of desperation, I chewed up two olives stuffed with blue cheese, but even that was in vain. Over the next days and beyond, we all experienced durian flashbacks - a sudden and unexpected flavor recall - while smelling or tasting substances of a wildly varied nature. Apparently durian is like Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans - there isn't a flavor or aroma existing in nature that isn't present in some form in its fruit.

When the smoke cleared, we had consumed two of the five lobes of the durian. Not wanting any more, but not wanting to waste it, we harvested the remaining meat and sealed it within a hermetically-sealed container used for transporting live organs, drove to the other side of town, and buried it, marking the area with hazardous waste sign, as if it were a headstone for a plague victim. I had heard from the same friend that clued me in on where to purchase the durian that it could be made into other treats, such as smoothies or cakes. In the morning we recovered the leftovers and my sister made it into cupcakes, using the fruit both in the batter and frosting. The panoply of flavors did work very well with the sugary sweetness of the cakes, though they were certainly possessed of the fruit's sensory heft and muscle. Though not nearly as complex as the durian on its own, they provided, for better or worse, a summary of what could be found within the flesh of that rare beast, and they even generated their own immature version of the Creature.

We found a few victims to feed the cupcakes to, most of whom took a nibble, nodded, and politely handed the morsel back. Everyone, however, is intrigued by the idea of the Smelliest Fruit on Earth. The gang at work has been interested in tasting durian, though I'm afraid that if I brought some in the Creature would set off the fire alarm, and I wouldn't want to be responsible for seven hundred people being evacuated in the middle of the day. Well, we'll see.