With the Fire on High(65)
“You have good instincts. You will make a fine chef one day. Maybe when you finish school, you’d like to come back to Spain? I would love to take you on as my apprentice.”
I look up quickly and forget what I’m doing. My hand slips and I cut it where I’ve been holding the pork in place. I drop the knife and quickly back away. “Shit.” I check to see if I got any blood on the meat, but Chef Amadí puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes me toward the sink, where she runs water over my hand.
“Oh, here.” Chef Amadí wraps a clean towel around my hand. “Keep that water running. Let me see if any got on the food or cutting board. We have Band-Aids and gloves in that cabinet above your head. Only a couple more hours and you would have gone through the trip unscathed. But now you have a war scar to prove you were here.”
The small cut stings, but nothing like the tears in my eyes. Being able to stay here, to work in a real kitchen after school and learn more would be a dream. But even as I think it I know I would never want to leave my daughter, or my ’Buela, or the city I love.
“Emoni, it was so wonderful working with you. Anytime you are in Spain you come back here. And if you ever want to talk about working here, I have use for a chef with hands like yours. Oh, and here.” Chef Amadí hands me a letter. “This is my official academic evaluation of your work for Chef Ayden. Don’t read it. Unless you want to.” She smiles at me and hands me a container of tea. “And these are tea bags I put together from my own garden. You can make tea or add it to a recipe. I’m sure you’ll figure out how to use it.”
I hold the bag up to my nose. Lavender, ginger, chamomile . . . “There’s something in here I can’t place,” I say to her.
“Ah, and that’s why it is magic. Not all recipes in life are easily understood or followed or deconstructed. Sometimes you have to take what is given to you and use your talents to brew the best tea possible. Yes?” She wraps me in her arms before I can answer and then she’s shooing me out the door.
I take off my smock and chef’s hat and fold them neatly, handing them over.
“The pork shoulder will be wonderful. I can’t wait to try your marinade. Be good and safe, and oh, Emoni, trust. Okay? Trust. Yourself, mainly, but the world, too. There is magic working in your favor.”
She closes the door before I can say anything else.
And for a second I feel naked, like I’m unhidden in the light of the evening sun, a person different from who I was a moment ago.
Duende
Pretty Leslie and I spend our last night with Mariana. She’s made a big traditional meal for us and even poured us a glass of sangria. I swear to God Pretty Leslie turned Hulk-smash green at the smell of the wine and I couldn’t stop the laugh that broke through my lips. She doesn’t touch her glass at all.
For once, I try not to analyze the dish in front of me and just eat to enjoy. Mariana has an old-school boom box in her dining room and Spanish songs play on a loop. I recognize some from when ’Buela has her radio on in the kitchen and others I don’t know but wish I did. One song comes on and the first couple of words make me lower my fork. Mariana must notice because she gets up and turns the volume higher. Even Pretty Leslie must realize this is a beautiful song because she closes her eyes and listens.
The singer has a deep voice and the end of each note is punctuated with a clap.
“Do you recognize?” Mariana asks me. I shake my head. This is not a voice I know.
“Mercedes Sosa. Folk singer from Argentina but well-loved here.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to miss another word. She sings about how everything changes, the shallow and the profound, the shiny and the old; everything but the love for home changes. I’m tapping my foot to the rhythm, and when the song ends Mariana gets up and plays the song again.
“Mercedes Sosa was full of duende. Of inspiration and passion.”
I savor this new word as if it were the last bite on my plate, and I know now I’m ready to go back home.
Home
I grab my suitcase from the conveyor belt and give Malachi a quick kiss. He pulls me back for a longer one, and I blush down to my toes as my classmates whoop and holler at seeing so much PDA. I’m almost out of the terminal when I glance behind me because I hear someone cursing up a storm. It’s Pretty Leslie and her three big bags, huffing and puffing behind me toward the SEPTA sign.
“Leslie, do you need a ride? My grandmother’s friend is here to pick me up. You stay over on Lehigh, right?”
Pretty Leslie doesn’t need to say a word for me to see the relief written all over her face. “That would be great, Emoni. Thanks.”
Mr. Jagoda is waiting right out front when we exit the terminal and he seems so happy to see me. And I can’t lie: it’s nice to see a familiar face who’s going to take me to my family. In the Volkswagen, we sit in silence listening to an oldies station. And although I fight not to run out the car every time we stop for traffic, tolls, or a red light, Mr. Jagoda’s easy humming and calming demeanor helps me push back my impatience. I just want to see my baby. I couldn’t even sleep on the flight or joke with Malachi because all I can think about is Babygirl. We drop Pretty Leslie off and exactly four minutes later Mr. Jagoda pulls up out front of my house.