Fried Plantain

Originally Published in elimae

Still humming, my father slices the plantains. He drops the slices into a hot skillet.

"I won't forgive her," I say.

My father says nothing. He tongs the browned slices out of the sizzling oil and transfers them onto a plate. He asks me to flatten them.

After coating all of the slices with wax paper, I slide the first one under a drinking glass. I lean hard against the glass's rim, squashing the fruit flat, squeezing the oil out.

My father quits humming. "Gentler, child."

"I hate plantain," I reply, staring at him through eyes that burn. "First they're bitter, then they become rotten."

Shaking his head, my father sits in the chair next to mine. He reaches out and touches my wrist. "Not rotten," he says. "More mature. Sweeter. Softer."