Last night we heard the whistle of the camote roaster (sweet potato -- ah yes, God bless Africa for her gift to America) and Maria finally agreed after much prompting (she didn't want me to go out in the rain) that well, yes, she would like some -- so off I went searching for wherever he had gone --
By that time he had gone somewhere beyond the park. I kept hearing his whistle in the distance but couldn't locate it at first as it kept echoing through the misty, drizzly night. Went into the park beyond the preacher of darkness and Satan and the world holding sway over the well-lit center bandstand striving toward a brilliant kingdom of heaven, listening for that whistle, which way did he go, which way did he go, that wandering vendor of the streets -- wuuuu-eeeeee-uuuu.... ah, there it is again --
Out that corner there, down Fourth Street, to his white cart halted in front of the Benemerito Society building, like a little hand-pushed locomotive bearing roaster fire and steam oven hunkered down in the steadily increasing rain, with its own steam whistle crying out through the Mexican night... wuuuu-eeeeee-uuuu....
Maria loves sweet potato.
I had made her a light supper in my tiny apartment after the women's poetry. Got totally soaked rushing back the two blocks from the ambulant roaster with the styrofoam plate of warm roasted sweet potato protected under its little cover of aluminum foil. Thus the roasting man uses modern technology as it suits him and the tradition continues only slightly altered. This place is TOTALLY postmodern mix of ancient and modern. Now pay attention: This is one reason I live here: Tijuana holds a vision for the future, NOW.
My love made a big deal about how wet I got, clucking and kissing and drying off my head and face and arms, and then we settled down into eating the sweet warm roasted flesh of camote, el sweet potato. Mmmmm....
Sweet, sweet vegetal flesh crumbling and yes melting in our mouths....
Ain't metaphors wonderful?
Yep.
Así es la cosa, Michael D.
Sí, así es.
M m m m m m m m m m . . . .