I return to the Britos' ranch one day to find Dona Jeronima, Angela, Nonato, and Adilson putting the finishing touches on an expansive lunch. The main event—a dish reserved for festive occasions—is the quintessentially Marajoaran camusclim, a layered dish of pasta, shrimp, bechamel sauce, and buffalo milk cheese, baked until gooey within and golden on top. Served alongside it is the lyrically named baiao-de-dois ("ballad-of-two"), a dish served throughout northern Brazil made with sausage, air-dried beef, rice, and black-eyed peas. But I am especially pleased to receive a bowl full of pulverized açai, a dark purple palm fruit native to this part of the Amazon, eaten on this island in just this way for millennia. Sprinkled on top are white grains of puffed cassava flour, and we dip in bites of pan-fried yellow hake. Fresh açai has no equivalent in the world. With my eyes closed I savor its flavor, which I can compare to only that of good, fruity, freshly extracted olive oil. Lately dubbed a "superfood" due to its high antioxidant content, açai has become trendy throughout Brazil and in the world beyond; in Sao Paulo, it's served with sugar, sweetened condensed milk, fruit, and granola. But on Marajo, eating açai with anything other than fish or shrimp and cassava flour is heresy. Why dilute the pure flavor of this perfect food?