Azúcar came into our lives the way fate often delivers its gifts—raw, abandoned, but with a spirit too big to be broken. She was just 4 weeks old, a scrappy rescue left on the muddy banks of a stream in San Sebastián del Oeste.
Her siblings scattered like whispers, unsure of the world or their place in it, but Azúcar? She walked right up to us like she knew we were hers from the start. There’s something in her eyes, that golden fire like she’s been here before, and she’s back to remind us of something we’ve forgotten.
If she weren’t so white, you’d swear she had Malinois blood in her veins, the way she carries herself with quiet authority. She’s always on duty, guarding the perimeter like it’s a full-time hustle, and today’s proof sits by my feet—a black bug, big and ugly, probably blown in by the storm outside. Azúcar doesn’t miss a thing. Not even the tiniest intruder escapes her watch.
I’m in the kitchen, stirring a pot of bean stew. Azúcar loves it when I cook, but not just for the food—though she’s always hopeful something will hit the floor. No, she loves the ritual of it, the mess, the chaos, knowing I’ll eventually throw her a scrap because that’s the rhythm we’ve fallen into. She waits, patient as ever, trusting that in my haste to feed the house, I’ll feed her, too. Sometimes, I rinse off what hits the ground and toss it back into the pot. Out here, we don’t waste much.
This morning, I received a text from Gean and Jen, a couple I met on the beach. They were planning to snorkel at Los Arcos, but the storm had other ideas. The rain has been relentless, hammering the jungle and drenching everything in sight. I told Gean the only thing left to do was grab a massage, curl up with Jen, and let the world outside wash itself clean.
That’s what I’m doing. It’s been too long since I’ve made this stew, and the rain feels like a good excuse to slow down and stay close to the things that matter. In Mismaloya, the rain is a blessing. It feeds the jungle and makes the world hum with life. But in the city? It’s chaos. Streets flood, and old systems buckle under the weight of it all. Here, though? It’s like the rain’s telling us to stay home and feed ourselves—physically, spiritually, whatever it takes to survive.
Azúcar and her brother Bruno are underfoot, waiting for their share, but it’s not just them. We’ve got two frogs that sneak in like clockwork, plopping themselves in front of the stove, watching me like I’m putting on a show. Every time, I toss them back outside, and they hop up two flights of stairs to get back in. They’re persistent; I’ll give them that. And weirdly enough, the dogs don’t mind them. Everything else that comes through here gets checked—possums, iguanas, bees, geckos zipping across the ceiling like they own the place. But the frogs? They get a pass. Maybe there’s something sacred about them. I don’t question it.
The smell of chicken feet and gizzards cooking fills the air, blending with the earthy scent of rain through the open windows. I’m making enough for all of us—Azúcar, Bruno, the frogs, Empress, and me. No phones, no distractions. Just family, in whatever form it takes. This, right here, is what success looks like.
The stew’s got a few more hours to simmer. I’ll make some rice, toast a few tortillas, and fry up that Mojarra I speared yesterday. And when it’s all done, the house smells like home, and the rain’s still falling soft, I’ll crack open a bottle of champagne, settle in, and listen to the rain’s steady rhythm. Out here, in the jungle, life has its own song. All we have to do is listen.
