Home is where the heart is

SUGAR AND SPICE

 

Gigantic trucks with claws dig in, scoop up mouths full of sugar cane.
We're too far away to see, smell, the sweat pouring down the essential Dominican drivers' faces. These men work all day in the sun to eke out a living. Fortunately, I do not see any of the snakes that thrive in the fields or the multi-hundreds of insects that eat holes in the stems. Our guide follows a load to its destination, a vat that my apartment could fit in. My stomach turns, growls as the cane is smashed to a pulp in cauldrons  along with the added ingredients. Boiling does not silence my gagging, calm my nerves. On the spot, I vow never to eat anything that is sugar coated or anything edible that contains sugar. My vow will not be attainable, but I'll give it a try.

 

With little force, I punch my husband, Lawrence, in his belly. 'Let's get away from here, Lawrence. Without sugar, I will cease living.' Lawrence is a professor of Economics at U of P and laughs at my coming soon demise.  Sometimes I call him 'Larry, and now is one of those times. 'Larry, do you know what saccharine is made out of? How about Sweet 'n  Low?' He doesn't bother answering as his attention goes to a group of women passing by who are mostly broad and jiggly. They wear colorful bandanas and straw hats. Their size is meaningless as they are light footed and dainty.

 

'Let's get back to our room, Lawrence. I have to shower my mind, get rid of the snakes and bugs.' I shower first. The water is tepid. My over dose of shampoo requires three rinsings. What is an amazingly unexpected treat is the extra large, soft white towel waiting for me on a hook near the door. Larry, who is nearly bald on top but has a back full of hair, manages with one rinse. He's out of the shower as I am getting fresh clothes for the afternoon. 'Lawrence, have you seen the new red knit shirt I bought especially for my new white slacks?' Of course, he doesn't even favor me with a reply. I remove all of my things from the two drawers in the shaky wooden bureau and  go thru the empty suitcases that were, and are, empty. The shirt is gone. Who could have stolen it other than the maid? 'Larry, don't leave your watch or your wallet in the room ever. My shirt has definitely been stolen.' My mood sours. Even a bowl of sugar won't improve it.

 

Lunch beckons. Bamboo fans wave from the ceiling. They help, but not much. I order a fruit platter with only pineapple, bananas, oranges ,and if available,  green grapes. Larry gets a tasty looking burger that I cannot  watch him eat. For only a second I consider a slice of chocolate cream pie, see sugar floating in its base, have a cold beer and I am done. Lawrence offers me a taste of his strawberry short cake which I turn down. He has coffee, strong coffee, black as the ace of spades.

 

The blazing red sun sets and we head for dinner. After cocktails I select fresh grouper (caught this very morning). It swims in butter instead of the sea and is like no other grouper I have ever eaten, delicious. With it I get a perfectly baked yam and tender string beans.
The dessert tray passes by and I stop it. There is a golden peach pie covered with toasted almonds and what seems to be cinnamon and sugar. My resolve dissolves. The pie is heavenly.  The moon is full, silvery, shiny. The beat of drums, the almost nude dancers make me forget the sugar and the missing red shirt.

 

In the morning Larry and I have a pleasant breakfast with biscuits so light I am quite sure they will fly out of the basket. I devour three that I have slathered with butter and orange marmalade. Pig that I am sometimes, I could not resist the thin pancakes overloaded with syrup that the guest at the next table ordered. Larry and I relax after breakfast, play nine holes of golf on grassless fairways and greens that are more brown than green. I like it. My ball rolls for yards.

 

Another dinner time arrives. The days and nights go too fast. I order a light meal, a bowl of yellow bean soup and a cold Schlitz. The soup arrives in a bowl that almost equals the size of my scrub bucket at home. It is steaming hot, really hot. One sip and my eyes begin to bulge. I taste black pepper, red crushed peppers, tabasco, curry, bell peppers and salt, lots of salt. The one taste is enough for all eternity. I drink my beer and watch Larry grow hair on his head. He almost chokes on the spice in his corn soup. We each order more beer that covers our distress.

 

It is time to leave. We are ready to return to our reality. Larry takes our luggage upstairs. I take the held mail into the dining room, am about to sit down with my letter opener ready to attack the junk, when I see on my chair the stolen red shirt I forgot to pack.

 

If you think I tell Larry I found it, you are wrong. I wait two weeks to show it to him, 'Hey, Look, Larry,' I say. 'Macy's still has the same red shirt that I bought for the Domincan Republic.'