George Foreman in Nature’s Basket
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Photo: The Nature's Basket Grocery Store.
On our third day at Jost Van Dyke I rowed ashore with a grocery list, intent on replenishing our fresh stores. I walked the length of town, past the tiny stone church, following signs to Rudy’s Rendezvous Grocery, nestled behind Rudy’s Bar, but at two in the afternoon it was closed. The next day at 11 it was still closed, so I went in search of plan B and found it near a back street just beyond the police station, where signs pointed to Nature’s Basket. As I approached, I saw three local women on the porch, one braiding another’s hair and the third shelling pigeon peas in her lap. I greeted, “Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Afta-noon, madam. How you?” one asked.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I replied. “How about you?’
“Blessed, my dear. Blessed today.”
The pigeon pea sheller followed me in, taking her proprietor’s spot behind the counter.
“I’m looking for fruits and vegetables,” I told her, and she pointed me toward a wall of wooden bins holding … one onion. Nothing more. “Do you have anything else?” I asked.
“Yes. I gots some planten.” She led me down a dark aisle, past a display of typical items found on third-world shelves, all in cans. At the end sat a stalk of plantain. “Wha you want?” she asked.
“Well, I’d like some to eat today and tomorrow and some green ones for later.”
“OK,” she said, pulling out a cutlass and whacking off a large clump of the sweet vegetable. Then she went on, “I cook some today. I grill dem on me George Formin Greel and dey vaira sweet. Mmmm…”
As I paid her, checking out her “Mr. Credit is Dead” sign, I had to wonder why, in her world of so little, she would have a George Foreman Grill. But I knew not to ask.
Jan
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