De Paola Quiros-Cruz

De Paola Quiros-Cruz

Shared by Paola Quiros-Cruz

Piñas y Aguacates En cada visita semanal a la tienda las encuentro en todo su verdor. Son firmes, sobresalientes, llamativas entre las “desabridas” o “exóticas” como en este norte denominan a todo lo no colonial, a lo no familiar, a lo que huele diferente. No hay semana que me acongoje de tristeza cuando en mi delirio por saborear una jugosa piña o un cremoso aguacate, les clavo el cuchillo y el olor a podrido inunda la cocina. He tratado variadas maneras de evitar su prematura muerte. Las arropo con una bolsa de papel, las compro más maduras, las acomodo de un lado a otro, las pongo al sol, y así pasa, todo se ve bien hasta que viene el momento de su autopsia. Sucede lo contrario con los humanos, madurar en tierras ajenas, adaptarse al clima, las miradas ausentes, los fríos sin cariño, le vuelven a una la piel sensible y la carne fuerte. Lloran por la partida forzada a tierras desconocidas, entran en pena porque las manos que las llevan de un lado a otro ,trabajan incesantemente, arrancando la poca tierra que queda bajo sus pies. Para ellas es inconcebible madurar en una tierra que no huele a húmedo, a una mañana sin el aroma del neroli, a tardes sin esperas por la sonrisa de quien nos dio la vida. Yo ya no sé qué hacer con esa utopía de recordar mi país a través de la piña y el aguacate. En menos de 24 horas, cuando les anuncio que serán devoradas a la mañana siguiente, deciden fermentarse. Parece que ya no pueden distinguir que mis manos son marrones y no asépticamente blancas.

Pineapples and Avocados There is no week that I do not get tormented when, in my diaspora delirium to savor a juicy pineapple or a velvety avocado, I nail the knife into them and the smell of rotten fruit floods the kitchen. I have tried a number of ways to avoid this premature death. I clamp them in a paper bag; I buy them slightly ripe; I move them from side to side; I expose them to the sunlight, and everything looks good until the moment I witness how they renounce their own taste and color. I am coming to the conclusion that the hesitancy to ripen is a fruit rebellion, a contentious speech not to end up being industrialized in Ziploc bags, and organized on the lateral refrigerators of modern markets. They are beautiful and robust, but once they know that their names will be mispronounced, or that they will be used for new flavours of lattes and shakes, collectively, they gather to putrefy before being devoured by pale strange mouths. They cry their forced mechanized departure to unknown lands. They deeply absorb the melancholy of the hands that pick them and put them in boxes from one side to another. They lament the pain of those who work incessantly, pulling out overworked soil that barely sustains their feet. For them, it is inconceivable to mature in a land that does not smell like wet soil. They cannot wake up to a morning without the intense aroma of neroli. When humans mature in foreign lands the ripening effects are the opposite. Getting used to the changeable weather, the absent human glances, the wintry weather winter without affection, makes the skin vulnerable and the flesh stronger. I no longer know what to do with that utopia of evoking my country through Pineapples and avocados. In less than 24 hours, when I announce that they will be devoured the next morning, they decide to ferment. It seems they can no longer feel that my hands are still brown and not aseptically white.

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Written in Spanish and English in 2017 by Paola Quiros-Cruz and previously published in "Daughters of violence, Issue 2: FOOD 2017+". Shared in the summer of 2020.
Escrito en inglés y español en 2017 por Paola Quiros-Cruz y publicado previamente en "Daughters of violence, Issue 2: FOOD 2017+". Compartido en el verano del 2020