It started at the grocery store, but it wasn't until I had a knife in my hand that the flashback became physical time travel.
My family here in New Mexico has made an effort to gather not just at the holidays, but once in the summer as well. Location moves around a bit, and the host/ess plots the entrée and everyone brings an accompanying dish. It's not quite "pot luck" as the options are divvied up, first dibs first taken. Vegetables, soup, potatoes, sweets, beverages, etc. As we had a 3+ hour drive to my aunt's home well north of here, I claimed the fruit option, knowing I could prepare it in advance and it would travel well.
I stopped at the grocery with my list, hoping my master plan for colors, textures, sweet and tart would be possible. No apples or bananas; nothing that would turn color exposed to air. I needed berries, melons, and grapes. Luck was with me, and blackberries, raspberries, green, red and black grapes made their way into my basket. A couple of cans of cubed pineapple were tucked into a corner.
Then I surveyed the melons. As my grandfather taught me, I rapped each with my knuckle, seeking that specific sound, deep and hollow, which reflects the ripeness beneath the rind. I heard his smile, that one, yep, and that one.
My grandfather was born in 1898; he was in his mid 60's when I was born. He was a towering figure, with the jet-black hair and broad cheekbones of his Indian mother (his hair was still black when he passed at 97) and ice-blue eyes. He was from a time that viewed children as labor, and all us grandkids spent summers working the fields - moving irrigation pipe, picking chile - 40# a sack (we were grateful it wasn't cotton, as the bolls cut like razors), picking and shucking pecans ("PEE-kahns"). We'd jump in the ditch to cool off, drink sweet tea to slake our thirst, and get back to work. I learned to change oil in a tractor and a version of Spanish used by migrant workers. We'd never heard of sunscreen, defying the heat in borrowed hats, our shorts and bare feet.
The smell of roasting green chile - in big barrels over open fire - transports me into my grandmother's kitchen. It's about a thousand degrees, the chiles still warm from the roasters, having to be peeled quickly. The wet, slippery flesh rinsed and dropped into the endless rows of waiting Mason jars. The pressure cookers on the stove steaming and clacking in harmony. Apron-clade women, hands covered in lard to keep the chile's fire out of our skin. Sweaty brows and laughter.
I was in the very fortunate position, as eldest, to go on ride-alongs with my grandfather. I can't say I was his favorite, but I worshiped him. We'd walk in a field, and pick out a few cantaloupes or honeydews to take home for dessert. Taptaptap, taptaptap, hear it? That one. Taptaptap...
As I stood in my kitchen, knife in hand, I went taptaptap before cutting, just to make sure. The rind resisted the blade for an instant, then parted with a dry sound, deep and hollow and echoing across the decades. As knife met cutting board, a faint glistening of juice rolled down and I saw the seeds well separated from the walls, clinging together. The color of the fruit went all the way to the rind. As the sweet smell rose up, I heard him say yep, that one, and smiled.
My family here in New Mexico has made an effort to gather not just at the holidays, but once in the summer as well. Location moves around a bit, and the host/ess plots the entrée and everyone brings an accompanying dish. It's not quite "pot luck" as the options are divvied up, first dibs first taken. Vegetables, soup, potatoes, sweets, beverages, etc. As we had a 3+ hour drive to my aunt's home well north of here, I claimed the fruit option, knowing I could prepare it in advance and it would travel well.
I stopped at the grocery with my list, hoping my master plan for colors, textures, sweet and tart would be possible. No apples or bananas; nothing that would turn color exposed to air. I needed berries, melons, and grapes. Luck was with me, and blackberries, raspberries, green, red and black grapes made their way into my basket. A couple of cans of cubed pineapple were tucked into a corner.
Then I surveyed the melons. As my grandfather taught me, I rapped each with my knuckle, seeking that specific sound, deep and hollow, which reflects the ripeness beneath the rind. I heard his smile, that one, yep, and that one.
My grandfather was born in 1898; he was in his mid 60's when I was born. He was a towering figure, with the jet-black hair and broad cheekbones of his Indian mother (his hair was still black when he passed at 97) and ice-blue eyes. He was from a time that viewed children as labor, and all us grandkids spent summers working the fields - moving irrigation pipe, picking chile - 40# a sack (we were grateful it wasn't cotton, as the bolls cut like razors), picking and shucking pecans ("PEE-kahns"). We'd jump in the ditch to cool off, drink sweet tea to slake our thirst, and get back to work. I learned to change oil in a tractor and a version of Spanish used by migrant workers. We'd never heard of sunscreen, defying the heat in borrowed hats, our shorts and bare feet.
The smell of roasting green chile - in big barrels over open fire - transports me into my grandmother's kitchen. It's about a thousand degrees, the chiles still warm from the roasters, having to be peeled quickly. The wet, slippery flesh rinsed and dropped into the endless rows of waiting Mason jars. The pressure cookers on the stove steaming and clacking in harmony. Apron-clade women, hands covered in lard to keep the chile's fire out of our skin. Sweaty brows and laughter.
I was in the very fortunate position, as eldest, to go on ride-alongs with my grandfather. I can't say I was his favorite, but I worshiped him. We'd walk in a field, and pick out a few cantaloupes or honeydews to take home for dessert. Taptaptap, taptaptap, hear it? That one. Taptaptap...
As I stood in my kitchen, knife in hand, I went taptaptap before cutting, just to make sure. The rind resisted the blade for an instant, then parted with a dry sound, deep and hollow and echoing across the decades. As knife met cutting board, a faint glistening of juice rolled down and I saw the seeds well separated from the walls, clinging together. The color of the fruit went all the way to the rind. As the sweet smell rose up, I heard him say yep, that one, and smiled.
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