Isidro slices open a torete fruit with a small knife. His wife, Maria, breaks the two halves of the spiky round ball into pieces, handing one to her grandson and another to Yorlenis and me. “Los ninos son debiles,” she says. “Quieren café con azucar. “Cuando era chica, comí esta, nada mas,” she says in that familiar When I…… Continue reading What’s That Fruit: Torete