The Village Merchant, part 5
The sun hasn't set yet, but the air has begun to cool. The blue wrapper hangs absently in the Old Man's hand as his mouth works the bar. It was the last one, hidden by him a week ago. A gust of dust rolls off the road and into the field. The wrapper flicks and cracks as the wind tugs it back and forth. His eyes remark a blue speck seconds after they notice the wrapper has fled his finger tips. The field is finished for the day and the hoe hangs in the tree. He pushes off from the shade and towards the road. *** Daughter stirs the pot of cornmeal, watching it bubble. Puffs of air push up from below to pucker the surface. On instinct, she adds quantities of the peanut butter, palm oil, milk, the chopped mango, the mushed banana, the cup of cane sugar, and the cinnamon from the new Middle Eastern store. The pot pops and plops, aroma filling up the little cooking hut. The fire below burns splendidly. The cornmeal thickens and she waits patiently. The aroma reminds her of t...