Maruya

 Scents

I woke up this morning to the smell of summer. At no other time, it seemed, did the earth let itself be inhaled in a single whiff. 

All at once, there was the co-mingled scent of lazy days and green grass and blooming purple irises. Peonies bowing down in a spirit of mockery to the newly-sprouted blue lobelia underneath their bough were bursting with a dizzying fragrance.

And ah, the aroma of summer food.

Watermelon redolent of the sun, the lemony tang of rhubarb pie, the aniseedy bouquet of frosty root beer, the perfume of ooey-gooey mac and cheese. But most specially, I would never get tired of the vibrant resin-like essence of a favorite childhood snack.

Maruya.

Maruya or fried plantain bananas is a sweet melt-in-your-mouth local dessert.  

I remember watching Aling Nena at her corner stand. She would first peel the bananas, slicing them into one-inch pieces. After generously coating each piece with fluffy batter, she would deep-fry them to golden perfection in an iron skillet. 

Within minutes, as the sizzling crescendoed, she would scoot the pieces around, letting the fat pop over.

Then, as a dramatic finale to the gourmet concoction, she would smother each intoxicating piece in sugar.

I recall closing my eyes as I breathed in the smell of the fried dessert. I  couldn't wait to pick one up, gulp a bite of its crispy coating, then lick my sticky fingers one by one to savor its caramelized lusciousness.

Step aside, funnel cake and bubble gum cotton candy. For me, here was the only promise of the afternoon: fragrant happiness right there, wedged awkwardly in the skillet. 

Fried maruya.

A sublime snack infused with the balm of an invincible summer day.