Avocados and sour cream

by Felipe Zapata

Like your first kiss, one tends to remember other breakthroughs.  Like sour cream and avocado.

As a child, I ate neither of these things.

Where I came up, sour was a stand-back adjective, and avocados were something in storybooks.

I first encountered sour cream at age 19 in a restaurant on the edge of Merced, California.  Eating with me that evening was Staff Sergeant John Carnes.

I was in the Air Force.

Carnes was an alcoholic who looked like Jack Kerouac.  He was about 40, my boss though he didn’t really care about that.  He only cared about booze and women.  He was a womanizer.

But he was nearly sober that night when I ordered baked potato.  The waitress asked, You want sour cream with that?   Yuck, I thought.

It’s great, said the sergeant, so I ordered it, and I’ve loved sour cream on baked potatoes ever since.  It’s been years, however, since I’ve seen sour cream because it’s nearly impossible to locate on the mountaintop where I live.

People hereabouts recommend something similar, but I don’t want similar.  I want real sour cream, and I cannot get it.

Sometimes in life you have to live without things you love.

Another decade passed before I ate my first avocado, so I was about 30.  I may have eaten an avocado in my 20s, but I don’t think so.  The first that I recall was eaten in Puerto Rico.

You pretty much have to see palm trees to find a good avocado.

If you hear Spanish, all the better.  That means you’re in an emotional world, and eating an avocado is an emotional experience.  It’s very close to the texture of other stuff you don’t speak about in polite company.

I bought that first avocado from a brown-skinned boy speaking Spanish and carrying avocados in a cardboard box in the parking lot of a supermarket.  He was a young entrepreneur, and there were palm trees too.

Sour cream has left my life, but I eat avocado every day, which makes me strong.  I live in an emotional world.  I hear Spanish, and I see palm fronds.