Decadent eats blessed by the island sun

The island sun, according to my mother, is what makes the mangos in Puerto Rico taste better. An almost overripe fruit that has been chilled until it becomes so soft and creamy that it briefly resembles ice cream. One of the most magical flavors ever experienced combines the rich sweetness of mango with the icy coolness of helado de coco, which is made from the milk, flesh, and sugars of the fruitful coconut. The ice cream is generously scooped from a cart, piled high in a cup, and eaten in heaping spoonfuls after being gratefully purchased from a vendor met in the middle of the afternoon while taking a walk through the city. Mangos are a blessing from the same trees that grant us nutrients and shade. These rich flavors refresh me in the scorching heat by first soothing my tongue and then gradually cooling the rest of my body.

The sensory experiences are among the most memorable aspects of a trip to the island. Widest smiles I've ever seen after unreasonably long separations, mouthwatering, fragrant foods cooked in large pots for family dinners, and laughter-filled conversation flowing alongside speakers playing bachata, merengue, and salsa.

My body, mind, and soul are all in a loving embrace here, and I am safe.

For the majority of my life, I've struggled to feel familial and community connection; not because I don't believe it exists, but because it often appears intangible. These feelings of separation worsened by distance and death. To sum it up, my relationship with my family is complicated, and rather than my own memories, the majority of what I know about my ancestors and heritage in Puerto Rico comes from my mother's recalled experiences. She remembers the fruits and vegetables that grew in our family's backyards under the hot sun, such as plantains, limón, mangos, and orangelos, which are "a cross between an orange and a grapefruit."

Throughout each of her summers spent with mi abuelo and tías, gifts from these fruit-bearing trees seemed to be abundant.

Having only been to the island once before when I was a toddler and only attending a few Latin pride festivals as a child, I have experienced one memorable trip to Puerto Rico over five years ago. We ate freshly picked mangos with pulp so velvety that I repeatedly stuffed my mouth full of the fruit until only the outer, protective skin and an inner wall covered in tooth impressions remained. The first bite of a cold, tender mango carries me back to observing passing sounds outside while seated on wooden chairs in family kitchens.

My heart is warmed by the knowledge that, without the ramifications of death and distance, there would more often be rooms filled with smiles, laughter, hugs, celebration, and love. Once, loss consumed me, but now this pain is overshadowed by emotional safety. However, I cannot live prompted by a "what if?" and instead choose "what now?" alongside my own memories and loved ones' stories.

Food honors, grounds, and unites. When I eat helado de coco and mango, I taste flavors loved by relatives I've never met. A fueling action that engages my heart and soul. Recalling memories and engaging in purposeful practice, in my mind, fosters connection and grounding. Time moves more slowly, and a few minutes quickly become a distant memory of days spent tending to the trees, cooking in a busy kitchen, attentively listening to childhood stories, and a sincere attempt at reconnection.

Is this an honest attempt at imaginative reliving or an attempt to forge new memories in connection with old ones? Maybe when we are preparing the fruit, watching the ice cream scoops pile up higher and higher, and giving thanks for the blessing of eating food straight from the source, our souls briefly cross paths regardless of physical life or death, time, or space. In those moments, family gatherings become more frequent.