There is a lemon tree in Chelita’s backyard that’s savage. Over time, its branches twisted and turned inward, like the nest of a massive predatory bird. The best lemons hang from the top branches – the eggs. When we try to reach them, we gash our hands and our arms. We bleed. Continue reading “Difficult Fruit”
Like Morning Coffee
I was lucky as a child. The Ecuador that I lived was sun-soaked and epic, full of tall laughing men, German shepherds (magical to me), and bowlfuls of broth and cilantro. The air smelled like smoke –always –and a weedy green plant scent that blew in from the mountains. And, in 1979, at the age of 7, I spent a summer in Quito with my cousins. This was when Fausto was in his glory.
Fanesca
When Lent came to Quito, so did the rains. It was always wet, never dry. I walked around the Centro a lot then. In the early mornings, the Centro was chilly, with clouds in the streets, smoky with the scent of toasted cinnamon. During Lent the Centro smelled like that, but also – strongly – of incense: incense and cinnamon. Continue reading “Fanesca”
Dulce de Higos
I want to write about ovaries – my ovaries. For 35 years, I had the pair – the symmetrical duo. Then, on a bumpy five-hour bus ride to Bilbao, one twisted. It had filled with blood, and blown up in size, growing as round and heavy as a grapefruit. I landed in a crowded Spanish hospital, was prescribed pain medicine, and then I flew back over the Atlantic. There, my gynecologist drained the ‘grapefruit’. It filled up again almost immediately. Continue reading “Dulce de Higos”
Quimbolitos
When I moved to Ecuador, Quito was in the middle of an energy crisis. At its worst, the power would go off for hours, and we never knew when (or where). That meant no lights and no hot water. Continue reading “Quimbolitos”
The Cold Outside
My grandmother kept a modest white house in Quito – it had pink roses all around it. The doors were old, wooden, and the inside rooms very drafty. My sister and I huddled under the heaviest woolen blankets when we slept there. We could see our breath in the drafts. In the morning, it felt like we had woken up outside. Continue reading “The Cold Outside”
Encebollado
Saturday mornings in Quito were still like the sun, and they felt just as hot. I used to walk to Chelita’s house for breakfast. The sun burnt my eyelids, my neck. The Andean sun was ever, always there. Continue reading “Encebollado”
Birds and other Angels (Jugo de Mora)
My aunt Chelita has always had a round body, and it’s even rounder now. It’s voluptuous, with terrifically large breasts and shoulders like apples. Her hands are like apples too. They’re small and powerful, red and fleshy, with promise behind them. Continue reading “Birds and other Angels (Jugo de Mora)”
Clouds and Chirimoyas 