A little white house nestled in a cluster of cherished homes. On one side of the house, a local car shop painted in the primary colors. On the other side, a man sitting with his cart and umbrella, advertising his papayas and pineapples with a smile. And in between, kissing cars lined the streets. The subtle mischief of how people exist and function makes me feel free from the irritation of knowing society is kissing The Man's ass. I can lean into my wildness here.
My spirit draws me into the open-air house, luscious greenery tickles my shoulder as I walk into the dining rooms covered in symbols of the Puerto Rican countryside. Simple cookware, farming tools, and roosters brought to life in all their forms. Flags, framed family portraits, quiet landscapes, old advertisements and newspapers line the white walls of the familiar restaurant. Despite being my first visit, it feels like I grew up eating here.
And then I saw her.
Large. Round. Juicy.
On every table, her weight stopping the thin napkins from blowing away.
Where were they grown?
How long do they sit on these tables? Free of blemishes and imperfections.
Please tell me they're going to be used in future dishes.
I can't explain why the neurons in my brain fired to such a simple sight. Again, it felt like a glimpse into the culinary identity of Puerto Rico. Every table blessed by the presence of such a perfectly round allium. Along with the salt, sauce, and flowers on the table, the onion was there to remind the hungry bellies and minds in the dining room of her role in each dish.
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