This is a granadilla. It smells like fabric softener.
There is something so fleshy and almost grotesque about this fruit, with its strange, artificial taste of clean clothes. I wonder what Virginia Woolf would make of it. I think she would have had a hard time with tropical fruits in general, with their womblike abundance of seeds, their heady, luxurious sweetness and unrelenting softness. Then again, maybe she would have loved them. Maybe her writing would have become more like Georgia O'Keefe's paintings, and she would have had a longer, happier life, walking out in the mornings with a parasol and taking a siesta after a good meal of rice and beans.