The yellow rubber gloves are on and my splattered apron safeguards my clothes. Spatula in hand, I stand over the noisy whirring of a XXX-size KitchenAid mixer filled with a shiny, viscous black goop when my husband shouts from across the room, "Don't breathe on that!"
"I'm not breathing!" I say.
I step away from the mixer and feel a squishing sensation underneath my foot.
"Oh no! Do you think you could ever one day wipe up a spill when it happens?" I ask. "Now I'm going to have it all over my foot. Look, it splashed up on my leg too."
He ignores these comments. He's too busy pouring jet-black jagua fruit juice from a plastic gallon jug through a funnel and into a sieve in order to make sure any remaining sediment doesn't make its way into the mix. At the bottom of the jug, it's all sediment. With a black plastic spoon he pushes the thick stuff through the strainer so that he can gather every last drop of this rare, precious liquid that we like to call "black gold." In the process, some of the juice splashes on his chin. No matter the precautions, we always end up looking like we work in the semi-permanent ink business, which, come to think of it, we kinda do. A few minutes later, I pull off my gloves and stare in horror. My hands have turned completely black.
"How did this happen again?" I say. "How did it do that? Thank God jagua doesn't stain the nails!"