The breadfruit was charred on the outside and just right within—tender, almost creamy—when we got back from our afternoon at Kealia Beach, a half-mile crescent of white sand on the eastern edge of the island. Watten put on some music, cut the fruit into wedges, and proceeded to make two variations—a local feta sprinkled atop one, a vinegar-and-honey barbecue mop sloshed over the other. We ate it standing up, barely speaking, the light low. It was earthy and alien in its smoothness—not fibrous like a squash, which it called to mind, or dry like a potato. Maybe I was dazed from the surf, but months later it remains one of the most memorable and wonderful meals I've had in years. Did it taste like bread? A little, I guess. But also like a root vegetable, and also like some sort of dough, and also sort of nutty, and also somehow like Kauai itself, the damp and the breeze and the salt.