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Still humming, my father slices the plantains. He drops them into a hot skillet.
"I won't forgive her," I say.
My father says nothing. He transfers the browned slices onto a plate and asks me to
flatten them.
I position the slices between sheets of wax paper and slide them under a drinking glass. Leaning hard against the glass's rim, I squash the fruit flat, squeeze the oil out.
My father stops humming. "Gentler, child."
"I hate plantain." My eyes burn. "First bitter, then rotten."
He shakes his head and sits beside me, touching my wrist. "Not rotten." He pulls me
close, whispering, "More mature. Sweeter. Softer."
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