Sweetened

A Story by Honey

I was required to write a food memoir for a writing class! I chose a pineapple that I ate on my beautiful trip to Nicaragua.

There are so many faces, but only 15 that I know. Sweat builds upon my sunscreen lathered skin, yet I am still. The clock on the wall ticks at the pace it should, but it seems as though it is moving as slowly as I am. People frantically claiming their baggage is my only entertainment for a while. As I sit on the dirty tile floor I count the shoes that carelessly pass me by. Two, four, six... “Bus is here!” shouts Lea, the group leader. It takes most of my energy to get back on my feet. As the doors swing open the sun pierces my pale body, and a pleasant breeze refuels my lost hope. “Hola,” says the bus driver. The next sound I hear is the laughter of the driver as he mocks my blank stare.

The language barrier was broken; the engine, roaring. I was coasting down the streets of Nicaragua on an overcrowded bus, running on 3 hours of sleep, and questioning my decision. Ten days in a world that I do not know. I pinched myself but I did not wake up. The foreign sky was really there and so was I. The heat was unbearable, but the open window put me at ease. No one was speaking. Sounds of the tattered bus on unpaved roads suffused the silence. Scenery went from urban, to rural, to undeveloped with no warning. As we drove, anxiety and fear of the days ahead overwhelmed me. My motivation was sustained through thoughts of delicious fruit, and beautiful oceans. I surrendered my attention to the tropical blue abyss above, and I wondered if everything was going to be alright.

Holes in the ceiling contrasted well with the lime green paint. My temporary bed provided just enough comfort to catch up on some sleep. Ants maneuvered across the floor, making me feel lazy. Enjoying a sauna like room is difficult when the humidity is suffocating. My sinking eyes, hard to control, I let them shut. I did not have a fever, but the unfamiliar walls made me sick.

I woke to the sound of my peers talking of dinner plans. Finally, some common ground. We strolled down rainbow roads in search of food. Crowded streets held curious eyes that could not help but to stare at our American skin. Each shanty was just a few thin walls, with maybe a tarp for a ceiling. I could smell the cheese from a few feet away, but so could the flies. The merchant casually swat them away. Slabs of raw meat were thrown onto a table, and the flies liked that too. I could almost hear the bacteria in my stomach warning me to stay away.

My eyes were drawn to the radiance of reds and yellows. Gracefully, I made my way to the exotic stand. This country was different; I felt so alone, but the colors created ambition. I picked up a familiar, spiny-margined, bromeliaceous plant. It’s recurved leaves, rigid and green. I knew that it’s juicy yellow center would perfectly mock the taste of home-sweet-home.

Preparing dinner was easy. The steaming water did not bother me, I was used to the heat. The rhythm of my knife flowed smoothly as I chopped, diced, and minced. My hand gravitated towards the fruit. Like the streets outside, the outer layer was rough and unappealing. I wondered if my dull knife would be efficient. The blade punctured the skin and the ripeness made for easier cutting than expected. My ignorance became apparent when the flesh became visible.

Everything I thought I have ever known about pineapples had changed with a single slice. The sunshine colored flesh that I anticipated was in fact, white. Shocked, but curious I took a bite. When it reached my taste buds they tingled with sweetness. I felt a sense of relief. I forgot my expectations and let the delicious, tangy, white marrow satisfy me. After all, it was merely a different type of pineapple.

My unnecessary attempts to make Nicaragua feel like home flew away like birds in the wind. The beauty of change overwhelmed me as I danced around under the starry night sky. I collapsed onto a hammock and I remembered the leftovers in the fridge. I ran hurriedly to assure I would have one last taste of the pale fruit. I ate that delectable miracle and trudged to bed. Disregarding any cracks or creatures, I laid there pleasantly; inhaling all that I am, exhaling all that I was.

-Honey