II. Maíz

You can read below (my personal recommendation), but if you’d like to listen to another impressively low-quality recording of me reading to you while you do the dishes or fold laundry, please enjoy.

I’ve been meaning to write about this day for weeks now, but like I said, it’s been a whirlwind. One day blends nearly seamlessly into the next, and I’m having trouble orienting myself in relation to the time that has passed and the time that will pass. But writing seems to help, so here’s this.

And so it was Sunday. Instead of church, we went to worship in the countryside, in a field, the maíz gently swaying in the light breeze. And again, I was welcomed with such warmth. People I had never met before shared their home, a hot meal, their stories, and the fruits of months of labor.

As we ate our plates of pollo con mole y arroz, it didn’t matter so much that I couldn’t understand every word that was said, nor think fast enough to speak. And after we had cleaned our plates, an armful of elote was placed in front of us, still steaming. It was maíz from the field behind the house, the gift of a season’s worth of sun, rain, and sweat. I carefully removed the husk, one leaf at a time, removing the strands of silk once I had finished. I took my first bite- no butter, no salt, no chile, just corn. Maíz blanco, the kernels larger, meatier, less sweet. There was a pause in the conversation as we all sunk our teeth into the elotes. I think there is something inexplicably precious about eating food in the place it was grown with the people who cared for it.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, we left the warmth of the dinner table and walked out into the field. I was beaming the whole time we were out there, my eyes lit up with excitement, with joy. The pink light softly illuminated the cornstalks standing tall, each one rocking back and forth and all of them moving as one, a ripple of yellow-green against the purple and pink sky. I wish I had the words to describe that moment; it truly felt like something sacred, holy.

The darkness came quickly after that, and we took the corn we had harvested and delicately removed all but the last layer of the husk and placed them above the coals. While they cooked over the fire, the smoke filled the air, clinging to our clothes and hair.

Away from the fire, the air was fresh and cool, and the moon was rising overhead. Perfectly full and round and glowing brilliantly. We stood quietly taking it in. It was hard to pull your gaze away, the magic of it almost magnetic.  As we were saying our goodbyes and see you laters, I was literally brought to tears by the unwavering kindness and generosity of those who shared the evening with me. I had to pull it together though, because we didn’t know each other that well.