I would have said that life was pretty decent and I could have lived in my tiny niche on the mainland, remaining content. But now, knowing I must return home with only half a dozen of the little brown puffy, sugary balls that have changed my life, I must admit, leaves me quite unsatisfied.
My pores absorb the humid warmth, while they emit a somewhat salty, taro-leaf covered, slowly steamed aroma. The small little malasadas have now changed my obsession of salty meats towards chewy sweetness after an innocent yielding crunch.
There’s nothing like an entity of Portuguese genius that can grasp you by the balls (the malasadas, duh) and make you never want to return to America, or in my case, the continent. Well, at least not for awhile, until the sweet buds on this curious tongue turn a surrendering white… after indulging in relentless pão doce, heaping mounds of dole whip, spongey moist upside down pineapple cake, Hawaiian shortbreads, macadamias, coconuts, chi chi, herein lies the continuation of the list.
Alas, I must depart, to the bland colors of mist and fog, to an ocean gray with woe, yet still to the place I call home. I love these islands, I really do, but I cannot fathom ne’er returning to my city in the Bay.