Magical Seaberries
learning about banana recipes while I strain liquid gold through a nut milk bag
I’m standing in my kitchen squeezing a nut milk bag full of seaberry pulp. The liquid that oozes out is pumpkin orange and enrobes my hands in a rich coating, a coating that looks like it will stain but ends up washing off easily. I blended the berries with honey and apple cider vinegar to make an oxymel, my secret weapon during sick season. I wrap my hand around the ball of dense pulp at the bottom of the bag and wring it out one more time for good measure. These berries are like gold and I want to make sure I salvage every last drop.
The berries are tart and bright, packed with vitamin C (up to 10 times more than oranges) and one of the only fruits that contains all four omegas. I read that they are the only known fruit source of Omega 7, which is particularly rare, which is housed inside their oils. I feel like I’m unlocking the secret to vitality when I get my hands on them.
My friend and I drove an hour and a half to get the berries, from one of the only farmers in the state who grows them. When we get there, he pulls out a few gallon-sized bags of seaberries from the chest freezer, lamenting that he doesn’t have much left for himself. My friend and I shoot each other a look like he said we could have some; we drove an hour and a half to get them; should we feel guilty? but then grab the bags like we’ve finally gotten our hands on the dirty money and we better hightail it back to the getaway car.
On the way home we stop at Gaylord Farm to pick up beef. Every time we go I ask if they’re ever going to make merch. Missed opportunity. It’s a dark and dusty barn filled with freezers of different cuts of meat. It’s an honor system, as most stands are here. Cash only. There’s a calculator and invoice paper. A list of meat prices per pound. I write down each item, then punch the numbers in the calculator before counting my cash and putting it in the designated box. I pause to revel in the nostalgia of it all. It reminds me of opening a library book and seeing a due date slip glued to the inside, the last ink stamp dating back too many years. I arrange all of my newly-purchased frozen meat in a box and nod to the guy on the tractor as we head to the car.
While I make the oxymel, I listen to a podcast that shares different banana recipes. They mention maduros con queso, banana fritters with yogurt and honey. I nearly salivate. I fantasize about making banana vinegar. I learn about sal prieta, the peanuty condiment, which is made with salt and cumin and corn and annatto seed oil. I lick oxymel off my pointer finger and tap my phone, typing annatto seed into the search bar. The first photo I land on looks like a cartoonish mouth with voluptuous lips. It reminds me of Oblina from Aaahh!!! Real Monsters.
The mouth is parted and smirking in a way that gives jester. The seeds are like red teeth, jutting out in all different directions, crookedly jolly. I feel like it’s playing a prank on me, like it just popped in a set of gag teeth and now it’s standing there, still as a statue, waiting for me to notice, to guffaw, to spit out whatever it is I’m chewing on. Hopefully banana fritters.
