APIA-nionated — boiled peanuts
It’s our third day on Maui. My skin is perpetually dewy from sweat and humidity. My hair curls tighter, flaked with sea salt and sand. There is color all around- shades of rich greens interrupted by bursting reds, yellows, oranges. They pierce me with the odd sensation that I’ve lost something important. Unable to place it, I search the island, seeking for what I’ve missed. We arrive at the road to Hana’s halfway point around noon. I find them there. I pay for a pack of fifty. I know I won’t be able to eat them all. Eyes wide, body tingling, I open the latch on one of the tan compostable boxes. Boiled peanuts.
I’m five years old again. Five years old and sitting on the fanciest couch I had ever seen. Deep red, blood red, embroidered with jasmine vines set into an intricately carved rich brown mahogany frame. My throne. My feet dangle far above the ground as I create figure eights with my toes. My skin itches a little from the scratchy upholstery. I watch the ceiling, contemplating my perch. Constantly under siege by the pale yellow lizards that lived behind the lion portrait atop my kingdom- nay Queendom. Must stay vigilant to prevent attack.
Boiled peanuts. Hard shells softened, expanded, wet. Full. Supple shells imprinted with ridges and grooves, sparse fibrous hairs splaying out. Tender, crunchy, salty. A handful remind me of the earth. Heat packed dirt roads radiating sweet warm floral musk, adorned with sky high palms and jackfruit trees. Their ribbed, flaky trunks entangled with vines and exploding jasmine buds. Plucked, strung, and sold on the roadside for 10 rupees a bunch. Their sharp sweet scent mixes, mulls, mingles entwined into coconut oiled braids. My braids. Bouncing as I follow the scent of cardamom and sandalwood through my home. Feather light, swirling, twirling, giggling, I climb onto the cool black stone of the kitchen counter, roughly open the cabinet, and nick Ammama’s secret stash of ragi biscuits. Triumphant, I titter out of the house, goodies in hand. Once we’re sugared up, I convince my friends of our next target- the delectable lilac, pink, and white flowers in our neighbor’s front garden. Ready? Go! We run-laugh unstealthily down the street. The sun trickles past the sky and bakes into my skin. A handful remind me of an untamed me.
Squeeze them and crack crack crack they go. Breaking, breaking, breaking. Open into water and seeds. Shell crackling like the buzzing of tar-lined streets. Far off Honda scooters gearing up to go, dupattas flying in the wind, wearer clinging on for dear life, puffs of smoked petroleum. Stalled cars, honks, someone shouting “go right! go right! no no I said go right!,” while lunch-breakers watch on with amusement and order jola from the ever-famous metal stall on the corner. Through it all — Thatha’s rubber sandals in a lazy stroll as I bound up and down alongside him. He bribes me for a day of errands with pink cotton candy and bright blue stack point pencils.
On Sunday afternoons, I pause to rest. I turn on the TV, run, and plop onto my couch. “Scooby Dooby Doo where are you, we’ve got some work to do now!” Ten minutes in, I conclude it’s the groundskeeper because he has a very wrinkly and foldy face. From the kitchen, I hear a faint whistle. Thatha walks into our living room, big bowl in hand, and sits next to me. Legs sticking straight out off the couch, I shake my feet “who do you think did it Thatha?” I scrunch up my body, holding in the answer. “Well, I think it’s — ” “it’s the groundskeeper!” I burst. “I guess we’ll have to see,” he smiles. The show blares on, accompanied every few seconds by the crack crack crack of my thatha’s soft brown hands snapping open warm boiled peanuts. Every few minutes, he hands me shelled peanuts, five at a time, as he says “eat, eat, eat.” My laughter fills the room.
I seek them out now. At Safeways, Indian grocery stores, corner stores, farmers markets, tourist traps. I search for them in any produce section. When they appear, I buy as many as I can. Raw uncooked unshelled peanuts. They sit untouched, undisturbed, unused in a corner cabinet of my kitchen. Until my body overflows and drowns under my longing for home.
I slowly make my way to my kitchen. I turn on my stove, fill the pot with water, and toss in a cup of salt. I take my stash out from its resting place and gently lower each peanut into the boiling salt water. I cook my peanuts for four hours. Tenderly stirring and replacing the lid every twenty minutes as they clump. As my partner watches TV on our soft gray couch, I bring in a big bowl, crack them open, and hand them to him five at a time whispering “eat eat eat.” our laughter fills the room.
This piece is published in a series responding to APIA-nionated’s Spring call for pitches: personal essays that share your experience unravelling a loose thread of your personal history with objects — a rabbit hole down your mother’s letters, heirlooms lost and found, documenting activism through protest signs, etc.
