January 23, 2014--Snowbirding: In the Ghetto (Concluded)

Back at the Foodtown checkout counter, I made sure we had the package of nans, thinking that heated up they'd go perfectly with the Jamaican-style pork chops.

"Those look interest to me," the woman behind us on line said. "They are please?"

"Nans," I said. "They're Indian. They're made in a tandoori oven."

"What kind oven that?" I couldn't place her accent.

"A clay one. They use them in India."

"Indians?"

"Yes, the ones in Asia. From India. Not American Indians. Though these nans do remind me of Navaho tacos."

"Now I am all confuse."

"Sorry. I'm so excited by this market and by the nicest thing another shopper, Anna, did for us that I'm not making myself understood. She told us all about this wonderful Jamaican pork chop recipe. We bought . . ."

"I no eat pork myself," she said, making a face. "Beef is good and chickens and fishes. Any kind of fishes."

"We like everything. And this store sure has that. Everything." I was still feeling euphoric about our experience with Anna.

"I think I maybe get some of those brets," she said, placing a package of nans in her basket.

"You'll like them," I said confidently.

"Toast maybe?"

"I think so. They should be delicious toasted. With a little butter or dipping oil."

"That kind of oil, dipping, I do not know."

"It's just a little olive oil in a dish that you . . ."

Then, as if no longer thinking about the nans, she moved closer to me and whispered, "Can I say something?"

"Sure. Anything," I said softly, fully facing her.

"Not many of your kind come here."

With those words I was instantly on guard, not happy to hear about my kind.

Sensing that, touching my arm, she said, "No offended. I mean to say people from your backgrounds." I felt reassured.

"See everyone here?" I looked around. "I do not see any who look like you and your niece."

"Rona. She's my wife."

"No offended again. You look like love people." Warmly, she smiled up at me. She was tiny. Well under five feet. "I mean they live with all those gates."

I was confused. "Gates?"

"Houses with gates."

"Oh, you mean gated communities."

"Those kind. Why they live there and never come out here?"

"You know, I sometimes wonder that myself. One of the things we like so much about spending time here is all the diversity." Puzzled she looked up at me again. "All the different kinds of people." She nodded enthusiastically. "From all over the world. From places where all these foods and spices and teas come from."

"And these gate-people. They do not like it here?"

"They like Florida, but maybe not this place."

"Why not? This is America, no?"

"Good question. Though I'm not sure you'd like my answer." I half turned away from her.

"I might surprise. I do not bite." She was grinning.

"I think they're afraid."

"Of what?"

"That's another good question."

"Of what afraid?" she repeated.

"Of you," I whispered so as not to be overheard.

"Me? I tiny and am only 90."

"Ninety?"

"Pounds. And they afraid of me?" She was genuinely perplexed.

"That's what I think. They are afraid of anything different. Anyone not like them."

"So they put themselves behind gates?"

"Yes. As I see things, unfortunately yes."

"You had that person running for president last year."

"Barack Obama?"

"The other one. Mitts.

"Mitt Romney."

"He said we should go back to where we came from."

"Yes he did. He called it self-deportation."

"Is that what I am remembering?"

"Yes."

"So here they are putting themselves again to where they came from. Behind their gates. You said because they are feared."

"Like self-deportation," I said sighing, "In their case they choose to go back to the ghetto. And I don't mean just my kind. People from other backgrounds too."

"I don't know what that means, ghetto," she looked confused, more sad than frustrated, "But if you say so."

I shrugged, smiling uncomfortably as if apologizing. "It also makes me sad," I said, "And sometimes angry. But . . ."

Rona was waiting for me with a bag full of tropical vegetables, spices, and those wonderful looking pork chops. She signaled it was almost time to go.

The woman said, imitating my shrug, "Maybe there will soon be change."

"I hope so," I said as we paid and turned to leave, "I hope so."

When we were outside, I looked back through the window and saw her still smiling and waving the package of nans.

"What a place," Rona said. "All the world is here."

January 22, 2014--Snowbirding: In the Ghetto

We were standing in the checkout line at the Foodtown Market in West Palm Beach. It's off the beaten track for us, but Rona was looking for a special tea and someone suggested we try them after unsuccessful forays to a number of ethnic food stores.

But Foodtown offered more than just a full aisle of exotic teas. In addition to the tea, we loaded a basket to overflowing with fresh okra, sweet plantains, Japanese sweet potatoes, oyster mushrooms, a pomegranate, garlic, and fresh ginger. The okra and yams to accompany baked tilefish, the mushrooms for a frittata, and the plantains for a Bobby Flay recipe for chicken stew.

"This is some store," Rona said as we inched our way forward.

"Look at these baked nans," I exclaimed, noticing a pile of them tucked away in a crowded space near where we were stacking our items on the cashier's conveyor belt. "It says they're baked in a tandoori oven. Let's get some to try." I placed a package on top of Rona's three boxes of English Afternoon tea.

"I think they'll go well with the chicken stew."

Rona noticed a package of pork chops the woman ahead of us was passing to the cashier. "Those look wonderful," she said to the woman, who turned toward Rona with a smile.

"There's a Jamaican woman who I work with at the hospital, she said. "I'm not Jamaican," she added as if apologetically. "She's always teaching me how to cook Jamaican."

"What do you do with those?" I asked. "One thing I notice is that the chops are sliced very thin. Only about a quarter of an inch. I'm used to ones much thicker. But those look like they'll grill up deliciously. They probably get real crispy."

"Indeed they do," she said with a broad smile. "I may look Jamaican," in fact she did, "but as I said, I'm not. But I sure like cooking and eating Jamaican."

"Maybe we should get some," Rona suggested.

"Sounds like a good idea."

"Do you have any advice about how to make them?" Rona asked the health aide.

"Want me to show you?"

"But you're checking out and . . ."

"No problem," she said. "Would you keep an eye on my groceries?" she asked the the cashier who was already moving her bags to an out-of-the-way spot.

"My name's Anna," she said, reaching out to shake our hands. "And yours are?"

"I'm Rona."

"And I'm Steven."

"I'll remember that," she said.

"As we'll remember you," Rona said.

Anna was off at a trot heading for the aisle that was devoted to Jamaican products. Before turning up it, she spotted a stack of cans of Ocho-Rios Butter Beans. "These are delicious you said. "Perfect for the pork chops. And they're on sale. Only 79 cents a can," she said, taping the sign that listed the price. "They're normally 95 cents. Even at that, worth every penny. Um, um."

Halfway up the Jamaican aisle, she stopped and took down from the shelf a package of spices. "Just what you want for the chops. EasiSpice's Pork Seasoning. Let's see, it includes in the mix pimento, black pepper," she read from the label, "garlic extract, cane sugar, and pepper extract. You rub a little on the chops and then you put a tiny amount of Jamaican white wine on them before grilling them."

"Any kind of white wine?" Rona asked.

"No, no. The kind of wine's very important" she said shaking her finger. "They have that on the next aisle. Come. I'll show you." And again she was off and running. I tried, but couldn't keep up with her.

"Here. Here's what you want. Edmundo's Golden Cooking Wine. I don't know where it's from. But my friend says it's the only one to use. It only comes in this big bottle, but you'll like it so much that you'll get your money's worth."

And with that she was off to retrieve her groceries. Over her shoulder she said, "I hope to see you next time. But, like I said, I'll remember you. Steven and Row-na. Did I pronounce that right?"

"Yes Anna, Rona, that's who I am. And thanks so much for . . ."

We raced over to the meat department and found the thinly-sliced pork chops and picked the smallest package--eight chops that weighed almost two pounds and cost less than six dollars.

"I can't wait to make them," I said, "with the pork seasoning and the . . ."

"Golden Cooking Wine," Rona completed my thought.

To be concluded tomorrow . . .