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Cascos de guayaba (es/en)
Un día eres joven y al otro estás orgulloso de haber hecho tus primeros cascos de guayaba.
Confieso que mientras pelaba las frutas vinieron a mi memoria sensorial aquellos tiempos del servicio militar obligatorio en la prisión de Kilo- 8.
A un costado de la prisión, apenas separados por un camino estrecho, vivía Fermina, una mujer noble y bondadosa que me adoptó casi como un hijo porque yo siempre iba a parar a su casa, tan falto de calor doméstico en aquel año terrible. Me acogió como uno más de su casa, al igual que toda su familia, protagonizada fundamentalmente por mujeres hermosas y luchadoras.
Pues Fermina, además de ser la más servicial de las vecinas, hacia los mejores cascos de guayaba que pudieran comprarse en la carretera de Luis Lazo . Y más de un par de veces le ayudé a pelar, cortar y destripar enormes cantidades de guayaba que ella recolectaba y endulzaba con maestría, mientras se reía con mis cosas y mis arrebato. Terminaba mis guardias y me iba para allá, siempre tan confianzudo como siempre.
Hace muchos años que no la veo. Y hoy el olor de la guayabas en el fogón me trajo hoy ese recuerdo de mi vieja amiga, que ya no vive junto a la prisión porque se fue a vivir junto a sus hijas y a sus nietos y, de seguro debe andar haciendo por allá los mejores cascos de guayaba que puedan comerse en esta provincia.
¡Benditos sean todos los recuerdos!
Nota importante: que nadie me escriba, ni me llame ni toque a mi puerta a pedirme dulce, que ya saben cómo me alboroto cuando hay azúcar delante de mi😅.
Las imágenes utilizadas en la publicación son de mi propiedad tomadas con mi móvil Xiaomi. Traducción al Inglés por Deepl Traslate. Puedes encontrarme en los siguientes perfiles de redes sociales: Twitter, Instagram.
ENGLISH VERSION (click here!)
One day you are young, and the next you are proud to have made your first guava helmets.
I confess that while peeling the fruit, my senses were transported back to those days of compulsory military service in Kilo-8 prison.
Next to the prison, separated only by a narrow road, lived Fermina, a noble and kind woman who adopted me almost like a son because I always ended up at her house, so lacking in domestic warmth in that terrible year. She welcomed me as one of her own, as did her entire family, which consisted mainly of beautiful and strong women.
For Fermina, besides being the most helpful of the neighbours, made the best guava punch that could be bought on the Luis Lazo road. And more than a couple of times I helped her peel, cut and gut huge quantities of guavas that she collected and sweetened with mastery, while she laughed at my antics and outbursts. I would finish my shifts and go over there, as confident as ever.
I haven't seen her in many years. And today, the smell of guavas on the stove brought back that memory of my old friend, who no longer lives next to the prison because she went to live with her daughters and grandchildren, and I'm sure she must be making the best guava jam that can be eaten in this province.
Blessed be all memories!
Important note: no one should write to me, call me or knock on my door asking for sweets, because you know how I get when there's sugar in front of me😅.
The images used in this post are my property and were taken with my Xiaomi mobile phone. Translation into English by Deepl Translate. You can find me on the following social media profiles: Twitter, Instagram.
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