“See you tomorrow?” I asked in Creole.
“Dako,” he agreed, turning down the dusty footpath. I
turned too and weaved between simple cinderblock homes, once brightly painted,
now fading in shades of rose pink, sky blue and sea green. Corrugated tin roofs
begged for shade from pointed mango leaves or thick-fingered breadfruit fronds.
The next day, we waded from thick, salty air into the
sandbar’s warm waters. Where shallow cerulean dropped to royal blue, we dove
down, our breaths held and hands outstretched.
Spindly trails in the sand led to crusty mounds barely resembling the
beautiful conch shells of tropical trinket stores. If lucky, we’d find a cache grazing patches
of waving sea grass. If not, we’d come up gasping and empty handed. Today, we had luck.
Hauling our sack to shore, we realized the one ingredient
we forgot to catch. With Haitian key
lime out of season, prices were high and, besides, there was no market today. I
set off to visit women I’d befriended. Though poor, they reached into pantry
sacks and offered me their limes.
When I returned, charcoal glowed red and we boiled our
catch to release the coiled meat. His
hands moved more deftly than mine to remove the innards and tough edges,
accustomed to the knife’s edge on his hand. With another long slice, we dropped the
slim curlicues into a mix of lime and white vinegar. He sliced thin slivers of onions and rings of
tiny Scotch bonnet peppers against his palm, crushed bouillon cubes between his
hands, and added pinches of salt and sugar.
With a quick stir, we had it: lambi. Tender and springy Haitian
conch pickled with onions. With each bite, the faint flavor of the sea mingled
with Scotch bonnet to burn my lips. As I walked tiny dishes of lambi to the
women who had shared with me, I felt so much of Haiti in my quest for this one
dish. Perfect azure waters, yet fewer fruits of the sea. Poor, yet rich in resources. Hungry,
but always sharing.
