There is something so satisfying about getting up in the morning before everyone else does, especially when it’s dark and raining outside. The house is quiet, dim, and still. You feel like the only person in the world. Or a ghost in a slumbering world that used to be yours. It’s perfect solitude. I woke up before my parents and floated to the kitchen for breakfast. I sliced into a ripe mango. Juice rolled off the red skin onto the wooden cutting board. The smell overwhelmingly reminded me of Florida, of family, of Spanish rolling rapidly off tongues, of warmth, of longing for an elsewhere home. I imagine that’s the longing the older Cuban generation feels for their island. I remember my parents talking about all the tropical fruits they used to eat in Cuba when they were little, some I had never even heard of. “I remember the pink of it,” my mom said about one fruit. (I remember this because I was struck by the phrase and wrote it down to use in a poem later.) Just proves how strongly tied sensation is to memory. After I ate my mango and drank some soymilk (I love vanilla soymilk), I decided to go ahead and prepare the batter for the frituras de cangrejo (crab fritters) for later. (The recipe is in recipes tab.) It was nice being uninterrupted. I finished the batter before mom and dad got to the kitchen. I also checked on the beans I was soaking for the moros y cristianos I’m making later. You have to soak the beans overnight if you’re using dried ones. Another post on that and the moros later.