My absolute favorite thing about Mexico is guava. I eat my weight in the smiling pink darlings—and then some. Just looking at the innocent ovals of succulence never fails to make my heart scream with happiness and when we reunited only a short while ago, I felt a forgotten gratitude so deep I nearly wept.
And then I ate them up. Day after painfully passing ocean blue day, I rolled them and stacked them and balanced them atop my too full plate... after plate after plate. The abundance was a luxury. If only I could stock my countertop with always blossoming guava, I'd be forever happy. I felt better. I walked along shore, sand, and cobblestone. I swam with turtles. I felt good. Guavas are loaded with vitamins and super juice. I looked better. I could carry more. I slept like a baby to the guava breast, nourished by her ever flowing madre love.
Now that I'm home, I'm miserable. It's white out. It's cold. There's no ocean. No fresh pescado. No sunshine. And the worst part is there's no guava. I'm pink with pain. Yellow with withdrawal. What have I done? Me and TCF even ran over to Marissa's Bakery on Eat Street who import the little queenies from time to time, but alas, they were fresh out. Cactus they had, but the guava tree was no more. Why? Because I ate them all.
I keep saying I'll never go back to Mexico because it's too hard to come home. I forget, of course, and head out every other year or so. Why oh why do I do this?
