It’s the fault of Jiló

It's the fault of Jiló

It’s the jiló’s fault, she shouted. Spit the poor chewed on the plate. He got up, threw the linen napkin on the solid wooden table and slammed his bedroom door. Cicília lay on her Egyptian scarves and hugged her silk cushion, where black tears ran from her new imported mascara that she had recently tested on her lashes. Cicília, when younger, heard her grandmother say that life was bitter like a jiló, and when she wanted to blame life, she blamed the jiló and spat on the plate she ate.
The loving grandmother leaned her fragile ear against the door and, with sensitivity to her granddaughter’s pain, explained: “Cicília, it was just a metaphor, come and eat the jiló that grandma prepared.”. Cicília never gave in, but this time she just didn’t know what a metaphor was. He stayed in his room and, as he wept, he felt a lingering bitterness in his mouth. I thought it was the taste of jiló, simply because I couldn’t understand the bitter taste of life yet.
She heard, on one of those afternoon shows, that to get the bitterness out of the jiló it was necessary to soak it in vinegar. Cicília, remembering the tip, said from the bedroom to her grandmother who was in the room: “But you didn’t let it soak in vinegar.” The grandmother did not respond to her granddaughter’s naivete. Cicília in response to her grandmother’s silence forced her to cry to get attention. She was sensitive and intensified the drama so that people around her understood the intensity of the pain she was actually feeling. Tired, she stopped crying and her breathing slowed, until she fell asleep.
From that day on, every time I cried, I took a formula carefully measured, in a tablespoon, as medicine. It was a palliative treatment, against the pain of life, a treatment without a cure. The formula she had learned in the afternoon program: “A tablespoon of white vinegar.” In her head she answered a question that no one had asked, she told herself that she was soaking her soul in vinegar to remove the bitterness. It was when it occurred to her that she was taking out the bitterness and putting on the bitterness, she did not understand the exchange itself, but was convinced, for some reason, that it was a good choice.
Vinegar had been the only thing that had faced him, he was invasive and made her water. She liked challenges. But the jiló had a disturbing delicacy that she could only understand (the paradox), with maturity, and that’s how it happened. The years passed and the jiló was passion conquered little by little, step by step. It started with the fried jiló and the crunchiness attracted him, went to the stuffed jiló and the spices pleased him.
The world continued to be a world, but it was another after trying the sautéed jiló. She was intrigued, didn’t quite understand what he had to say, but this time she didn’t hate him. After a few months, Cicília finally tried the jiló soup of her own free will. And it was overwhelming! She understood at that moment that life was, and there was no harm in being, painful, bitter and challenging. The jiló was explosive, with a strong personality, but it was of a fragile sincerity.
Cicília felt something transcendental about the jiló. She filled her mouth to say the greatest truth she ever thought of saying in life: “Jiló is so bad, but so bad that it is the best thing I have ever eaten.” The jiló is credible. The truth is bitter, but it is still the truth. An aesthetic and sensory shake was the jiló soup that night. The jiló had the strength and gustatory persistence to play on equal terms with Cicília’s stubbornness.
She had just felt that she was born to defend the jiló, also so alone and misunderstood. But now there were two, and one plus one, in his world, there were already three. They say that only the fragile have the sensitivity to understand the raw delicacy of a jiló. Cicília built her sensibility from her gross fragility, conquering not only a new passion, but a new sense. Now there were actually three: Cicília, Jiló and her grandmother, at every dinner.

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