THE SWINGING, BULBOUS, BRIGHT GREEN GOURDS in my grandparents’ backyard didn’t belong there. After all, their tiny spot in San Francisco was often wrapped in a blanket of fog and averaged a crisp 60 degrees. It was the opposite of the steamy, tropical climate where chayote (or mirliton, as it’s referred to in the Deep South) typically grows. But despite it being geographically out of place, the squash thrived, and today it wends through memories of my home and family. The curlicue chayote vines wrapped around my nana’s clothesline, reminding me of her nimble fingers threading wet clothes to dry. On rare sunny days, the chayote shaded my grandpa while he hoed weeds, humming a tune that I still know by heart. In the early days after I was born,…
