creme de abacate

“You call that an avocado,” Pablo smirked as he observed the California avocado I sliced open.

“In Brazil, we have avocados four times that size,” he said.

Pablo bemoaned Brazil often, lamenting the politics, and the layers of corruption that he encountered growing up on the outskirts of Rio. But on many occasions, I saw him lovingly recount innocuous details about his home.

He chopped the garlic, his hands swift and precise, as he worked to prep the roast. “My mother raised us on Creme de Abacate—an Avocado dessert. It’s simple; avocado, sugar, milk, cream, and lemon juice whipped together to form a sweet, creamy texture, and just...” Pablo pinched his fingers and thumb together, and kissed them—his fingers dramatically unfolding before his lips, “... perfect.” 

He’d been here for some thirty odd years—coming for a chance to reinvent himself. And reinvent himself he did. It wasn’t always easy, or glamorous, but he chased the dreams of every immigrant with the intent to shape his story in the way that he always imagined. 

In the moments after he stopped speaking, I saw Pablo longingly look out the kitchen window.

He was aching for home.

-m

October 25, 2020