Up late, up early. Faint
yellow morning, barely here. Yellow cast
the color of dust. Continental grounding to the salty blue ocean’s
antipode. A dustybrine tension, this
road or that, where the trickster stands watching, laughing. And this morning, and for many mornings this
week yellow was moist and I sank my hands in for nourishment.
My older daughter and I confront morning first. She needs to be dropped off just after 6:00
AM.
Against our will, we both “arise and go now, and go to” the
bathroom, down the stairs, off into the car.
I didn’t have my act together to bring my iPod and we listened to the
Kenny Dorham “Trompeta Toccata” from the same year the Beatles first landed at
JFK. It’s lovely.
It’s just been in there for over two weeks now.
An hour later I took the little one over. It’s rather a different scene. Early on you can get in and out easy
enough. No one is there. By 7:30 AM it’s like getting into the Holland
Tunnel. Since no one ever pauses for
anyone unless a person makes it impossible for the other to move save to collide, you simply must be an asshole to cover any ground whatsoever. I reluctantly wrote about driving my Honda
Odyssey around this neighborhood in the “Invidia” chapter of Seven Deadly
Starbucks (7DS). Time driving a car is time
wasted.
Having completed my cursive K-turn in the face of
bidirectional, overtly intentional, oncoming traffic I plodded along toward the
main road. This time I had the iPod in
and Willie Colon’s “Se Baila Mejor” came on, randomly. It’s from the great trombonist, orchestra
leader’s 1969 release “Guisando” (“Doing a Job”) which has Willie and Hector,
mid safe heist, on the cover. As an
album I prefer the release from the previous year, “The Hustler” which is
flawless to my ears. But “Guisando” is
worthy and this is my favorite tune from the album. http://www.amazon.com/Guisando-Doing-Willie-Colon-Hector/dp/B000JJRWPI
It’s fast. And like a
fish, leapt up and out of a stagnant hatchery into well-aerated water, it
suited my mood leaving the school service lane, veering right on to the main
road. Gangster cover, pistol in your
face, bragging that they’re the best of all the dance bands, the attitude is
straight-up, Bronx hip-hop, eighteen years before “Criminal Minded.” The energy level is like pristine Bad Brains
speedcore about thirteen years before that same titled cassette was released. Right before the break where it spreads out
like a wave building, before churning inconceivably into double-time, Hector
Levoe taunts the imaginary audience like some Elegba Poncero, daring you. I can only imagine what a dance floor looked
like when they did this number. “Colombian
Coffee!”
Safely home, I need my morning shake. This is my ‘no starch’ breakfast
routine. Cut up bananas and peaches and
some frozen raspberries and blend it into a breakfast. Now a friend tells me that this too is
unhealthy. Sugar, even from fruit, is
going to give me arthritis and God knows what else. As a concession I’ve taken to throwing a cucumber
or a pepper in to dilute the fruit.
Sounds off, but it adds body to all the perky sweet tastes.
Today’s a bit sad though as I will be cutting up the last pomelo. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pomelo Two weeks ago, my daughter’ friend, who hails
from Fujian, gave us a large box with about ten pomelos inside. Do you know the fruit? They’re big.
Somewhere between the size of a watermelon and a grapefruit and taste a
bit like the latter without the acidity.
We used to buy the fruit already pealed, wrapped in plastic from the
supermarkets in Hong Kong. But I don’t
think I’d ever properly taken one apart before.
The first one I served improperly sheathed. I was reminded of the first time I
encountered an avocado thirty years ago and tried to peel it like an
apple. To my taste, this pomelo was dry
and gritty. I see. A box of pomelo duds? Was this a case of a full case of 华而不实[1]?
For the second pomelo, I took my time and did the requisite work of removing
the membrane. More labor for sure but once
its done, it is divine. And orb after sunny orb, working through our crate, I got the hang of it: cut through the top, slice down the sides,
lop off the bottom and peel back the remaining rind and then, from the small
hole in the top, rip it open, slowly. At
this point, the real work begins: pulling out the tightly wrapped segments of
fruit tendrils from within, dropping them all in a bowl.
I can recall visiting Colombia in 1990. It wasn't the best time to backpack through Pablo
Escobar’s Medellin on a low budget, but it was certainly memorable. The first thing I saw, crossing in from
Ecuador was a funeral procession, which seemed an unfortunate omen. But the country was grand and I was
particularly mesmerized by Cartagena, the jewel on the Caribbean. There were, at the time, stalls by the water,
which were ringed with glass jars containing and incredible selection of absurd
fruit, none of which, save the bananas, I’d ever seen before. You could pick out whatever struck your fancy
and they’d throw it in a blender and present you with new tastes for as long as
you provided pesos. Testimony
to the strange, unique bounty of the “new” world.
Interaction between the “old” world and “new” (Elegba was certainly a spectator at that checkout counter) changed forever the diet of both places. Usually I think of all the new tastes that
became old world staples. Belgian
chocolate, Chinese eggplant, Irish potatoes!
My dear grandmother always had such a hard time considering that potatoes
weren’t somehow indigenous to Eire. But
the Pomelo, appears to be native to Eurasia.
It comes originally from South and South East Asia. And where as I don’t know if the durian has
much of a future in North America, I’d say the pomelo is a good bet. It’s a lot of work, but the yield is high. Go Asian citrus! "indigenous innovation" is more than just yesterday's slogan. The pomelo is a disruptive fruit.
I just cut up my last one and threw the rinds in the waste
basket. Buying another one will not
do. I need another crate.
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