With the Fire on High(54)

“Girl, stop trying to prove something,” I say, and grab a bag from her. She must be really winded because she doesn’t even protest.

The upstairs is nice and airy with a small kitchen and living room. Mariana points to the back.

“Bathroom that way. Bedroom this way.” She walks through a small hallway and turns on the light to a room on the left. Inside are two twin beds, a dresser, and a large wooden crucifix over the mirror. “I will let you get settled. If you need something, I will be in the kitchen warming up dinner. You come ask.” She smiles and pushes her hair away from her face, looking expectant as if we might already have questions for her. I smile back and shrug. Pretty Leslie shakes her head. When Mariana leaves she pounces on the bed farthest from the doorway.

“If that lady is crazy and tries to kill us in the middle of the night I’m not going to be the one to die first.”

I roll my eyes. “We’re in another country and you’re acting like a brat,” I say, and take out my clothes, folding them into smaller squares to fit into the dresser’s drawers.

“Whatever. I’m not acting like anything. You just love being liked so much with your smiley-smiley self.”

She pulls out a pair of sweats from her smaller suitcase, pushes the two suitcases into a corner and her third bag under her bed, and leaves the room.

Ms. Mariana, Pretty Leslie, and I eat a dinner of oily rice and steak in absolute silence, the dwindling daylight finally giving all of us an excuse to go to bed early.

In our room, I notice that the air here smells different. Like oranges. I turn on the small night lamp, quickly throw on sweats and a T-shirt, and pull off my bra through my sleeve. I crawl into bed.

Although I would never let Babygirl skip brushing her teeth, I want to be asleep too badly to worry about my oral hygiene tonight. I can brush my teeth in the morning. When Pretty Leslie comes into the room, I turn the light off and stare at the ceiling. I wonder what ’Buela and Emma are up to. It’s still afternoon there. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I look at Pretty Leslie’s dark form huddled in her bed.

“Do you think you’ll get homesick?” I ask.

“Girl, don’t try to talk to me like we’re cool,” she says through her teeth, and rolls over on the bed so her back is to me.

“I know it’s only a week but I haven’t ever been away from home this long. It all looks so different than Philly.”

I can imagine her rolling her eyes at me. “Like you told me earlier, it’s only seven days. You’ll be okay. Plus, isn’t one of your parents some kind of Spanish? Haven’t you ever been to the Dominican or whatever?”

“I’m half Puerto Rican. And no, I’ve never been anywhere outside of Philly.”

Pretty Leslie’s only response is a loud snore.





Chef Amadí


“Buenos días, clase, mi nombre es Elena Amadí, and I make modern Spanish cuisine with a North African twist.” The woman at the front of the room is youngish, maybe only ten years older than us. She has long dark hair and even in her chef’s outfit you can tell she works out. Angelica would call her a hottie and I’d have to agree. We are all in a large kitchen, and Chef Amadí is the last of seven chefs to introduce herself. The whirring fan hanging from the ceiling has done little to stop us from getting sweaty, and although we were excited this morning when we took a tour of the ancient military watchtower, most of us are looking like we’re about to fall dead asleep on our feet.

“I’m not going to make it, Santi,” Malachi whispers. “Catch me if I faint.”

I roll my eyes at him. “You just gon’ fall then, with your big self.”

Chef Ayden clears his throat with that rumble of his. “Okay. Now that everyone has met the chefs, I will tell you who you will be apprenticing with this week. I took into account your strengths and inclinations and paired you with someone you can not only be a help to, but also learn from.

“Amanda, you’ll be at the bakery down the block with Chef Juan. Richard, you’ll be making tapas across the street with Chef Joselina. Malachi, butchery for you with Enrique, learning to make cured meat.” He’s at the very bottom of the list when he looks up. “Emoni, you’ll be working with Chef Amadí. Modern cuisine with a twist—sounds just like you.”





Cluck, Cluck


“Emoni, I’m looking forward to working with you this week. First, let me learn what you already know. Can you name me these ingredients?” Chef Amadí points to the different herbs and spices. “I can see that you know,” she says. And I do know.

I pick up the large leaf and sniff it. It’s smaller than the type we use back home but I’d know that scent anywhere. “That one’s bay leaf,” I say. “And that seed is cardamom.”

She nods and shoots me a wink.

She moves us to a different station and opens a container where several large octopi chill on beds of ice. I’ve never worked with octopus and I’m fascinated by the vibrant red color of the skin and the slippery feeling of it in my hands. She demonstrates with a knife how to slice through the octopus tentacles that she will marinate for grilling. I pull my hands back when they begin reaching for the spices. I feel like scolding them as if they were Babygirl, always trying to touch something they have no business touching. Babygirl. I was able to FaceTime ’Buela and Babygirl right before I got here and it felt so good to see their faces.