I’ve become an avid avocado buyer and eater. Aguacates are not in season anymore, sadly, but from November to January, you see avocados the side of small footballs.

If you ask me what my favorite thing is to eat, avocado has been the most sought-after option followed by the fried plantain. A mi me encanta, “A mi me fascina!” my sister says about papaya (and I say about avocados and platanos and lately refried beans from La Chula brand).

What my host family doesn’t totally believe, though I’ve told them time after time, is how expensive avocados are back home (by comparison)! Making guacamole (which is pronounced guac-a-mol by the way) is like at least a $10 venture in Atlanta. But here the avocados are falling from the trees November to March and sometimes hit the ground as I’m walking by with a serendipitous thud. You can’t go running around scooping up the ‘dos because that is personal property, income, but if it falls into the middle of the street and rolls far away from whence it came, well I make exceptions. But usually I buy a couple on the way home from work. There are always women selling in the market, even when it’s not market day, and I can grab what I need. You can find a good avocado between 1 and 2q (7q= 1 USD).

When I eye the baskets full of not-so-beautiful avocados stacked on top of one another, I approach with a knowing eye: “Salen buenos?” I say “Did they go/ripen well?” and they always say yes but still I ask! They usually rip one open to show me, as if because they reveal the avocado’s neighbor it will ensure that the others in the basket are just as rich.

But speaking as a recently self-elected avo-cionado, I will tell you what I know: You don’t want ‘cascara dura.” That usually means that the thick shell will break off in pieces on the inside of your avocado. You want the inside to be clean, meaning no brown parts or “pudrido”- that’s hard to find in the States but it’s not all so easy to find here to begin with. Next, you don’t want any with openings on the outside because who knows what’s gotten into them. The other disappointment is big pepitas because that means less butter. How do you know if there is a big pepita? Just like with men, you don’t. (I had to, sorry Mom). But still like a produce lottery you crack it open and either sigh in disappointment or show off your avocado insides to your host family (if you’re me).

Like opening a long-awaited treasure chest, my host mom and sister breathe in a simultaneous “heeeee” which is a sound for shock or awe. And that is when I knew I had found a good one. As I walked by and saw this mound of black-shelled avocados, not the usual dark brown or green shell, I picked one up, felt for the texture on the inside, asked about how they ripened then offered my 1.50 in response to her 2q. She said “no sale!” (sah-lay) (as in- that won’t go) so I fished out 2 golden q from my bag and walked off with my avocado in hand. I had a feeling this might be the universe’s avocado prototype. So I did not resist spending 2q.

And when I cut it open, pulled apart the shell to hear the “heeeee”s of success on the other side of the avocado, I saw the reflection from the treasure practically dance across their faces. I knew I struck gold. How cute of a scene? If there was a Norman Rockwell for Peace Corps, he would surely paint a volunteer cracking open an avocado and peering in at once with the host mom and host sister huddled around it. And in an hour I convinced my host sister to come with me: “Come on, we’re goin’ to find out where these avocados came from!” I couldn’t explain which lady in the market I’d purchased them from. “The one in the traje” just doesn’t narrow the options. So we went.

And after a short discussion in K’iche’, we learned the origin of the perfect avocado (I observed). The lady who sold the avocado shared with Clara that they come from a lady named Anna. Apparently that’s all you need to learn in a small town, a first name, to know the address. Because the next morning I woke to see three lumpy cosechas (crop bags) full of avocados from Anna ready for Clara to transport to the capital to sell (hopefully at 3q a pop). THAT’S RIGHT, I’M AN AVOCADO AGENT!  We got lucky that A: I remembered which lady I bought them from and that B: she was willing to tell us her inside avocado source. I’m also glad I convinced Clara to come with me. Her excuse for not leaving the house: “my shoes are duty.” If this was my rubric, I would be a hermitess.

And that’s how you find “Puro Mantequilla!” my host sister says for the good ones. “That is puro mantequilla!”

So I continue with my routine, buying avocados on the way home and being asked by my host sister “Where did you get those??” as if I could respond Publix. Naturally I always buy them in the market, but they still ask. It’s funny the things they don’t see because of what they don’t do in their own town. I’m sure Atlanta has vibrant offerings I’ll never know because I don’t go looking: it is home. And there are things you don’t look for in whatever place you call home.

As I naturally don’t call this place home, I see avocados and peer into corner shops and spend time at the library and meet people on buses and answer the same roulette of questions.

I will think of my host family every time I pick up an avocado in the States. And I will ask the grocery stocker: “Did these salen bueno?” and he’ll say “Um I have no idea.” And when I eat it I’ll say “puro mantequilla!”