by Mia Soto
4 pegs of garlic, minced
1 large tomato seeded and peeled
2 bay leaves
Chicken base
1 c of orzo
1c of frozen corn
1T of sugar
Salt and pepper
In a large stock pot, sauté the onion, celery and garlic. Add the chicken, tomato bay leaves and cover with 8c of water. Let simmer for at least one hour. Remove the chicken and debone once cool enough. Add the meat back to the pot along with the chicken base, carrots, sugar and salt and pepper to taste. Simmer for fifteen minutes and then add the orzo and corn. Cook until the orzo is soft. Serve with warm French bread. Enjoy!
As I’m loading up my car for another dinner, I see Mario coming down with a fox of a lady. She’s blond with curves that may not be perfect but that are filling out that little black dress she’s wearing in all the right ways. Her face is nothing short of stunning. I already know this is his wife. But I wave hello and act surprised when he introduces her.
“Marga, this is my wife,” he says in English and then Italian. Seems she doesn’t speak a lick of English.
“It’s nice to meet you.” He translates for me. “How is your stay going?”
She answers with a string of Italian which he then reformats for me, “she says very nicely, thank you. She’s heard a lot about you.”
“Really,” I say surprised. “I hope good things. Mario didn’t tell me he had such a beautiful wife.”
She blushes and smiles with a “grazie mille.” I don’t need a translation for that.
“We’re going to dinner,” he says smiling as he helps her into the car and starts walking around to his side.
“Good,” I say. “I don’t know what you were doing Mario, but women don’t get much better than her.”
He smiles proudly. Then he looks worried. “You won’t say anything?” I give him a look. He laughs. “Maybe we can all go out before she goes back. You and your man and us.”
“That sounds good Mario.” I don’t bother telling him there may not be a man anymore. I’m tired of killing everyone softly with my song.
***
I’m cooking for an elderly lady today. I tried my best to convince her that three hundred dollars for paella was not worth it. She should order from a restaurant. Sitting in front of her golf course estate, I’m not sure why I’m here at all, or more to the point, why she doesn’t already employ a chef. I ring her bell, and I hear her shoo away someone, probably a maid. She is a teeny, tiny, Latina and the very last of her kind, a lady - impeccable falls far short of her elegance. Her silk blouse and Kate Hepburn trousers are set of by pearls and diamonds and elegantly coiffed hair. I’m star struck.
“You must be Margo.” Her voice is warm with a Spanish accent, and her smile is blindingly genuine.
“I am,” I say returning the smile. She has her man help me unload, and then we settle into her restaurant style kitchen. I finally have to ask the obvious.
“Doña Verdu, why don’t you have a cook?”
She smiles over her glass of Sherry. “I wanted you to cook. You come highly recommended.”
“By who?” I’m curious about my new found reputation.
“Everyone,” she laughs at my confused grimace. “You are going to do me the greatest favor anyone has ever done for me.”
“By cooking paella?”
“You are going to be the last person who ever cooks for me,” she says. I stop in full motion and look over at her. “Don’t worry. I’m ready. It will be natural because it’s time,” she says. I must look stunned because she comes over and turns me toward her. She’s so petite I hover over her. “Tonight is the night of my wedding, sixty five years ago. We were together for sixty of them. It’s my wish that tonight we will be together again.”
“Doña Verdu,” my voice is shaking I can hear it. “I can’t cook for you.” Normally, I’d chalk this up to a crazy, elegant old lady but things have been strange lately. I may just pull off what she wants tonight.
Her hand cups my cheeks sweetly, “Margo, it’s not your food or you that has brought about the events of late.”
“How do you even know about that?” Is this why I’ve gotten so many calls from bitter wives and angry girlfriends? I guess I know it is. I just prefer to ignore the possibility.
“Come with me,” she takes my hand and leads me to an elegant parlor and sits me on a long couch. Then she opens a carved chest and takes out an old, old, wedding album. “This is my Raul.” It’s the picture of a gentleman in his truest form. It’s plain in his kind eyes and dignified posture. “I have loved him for,” she does some math in her head. “seventy five years. Since I was ten, and he was twelve pulling on my pigtails in Cuba.”
“He’s what I’m looking for,” I say wistfully about the elegant man looking out at me. “A nice Latino. These gringos are killing me,” I say continuing to flip through her album. Their wedding was immaculate.
“Margo, love is love, Latin or not, gringo or not. When you love someone, you love them. There’s not much more that can be done for it.”
“It’s not that easy, Doña Verdu,” I assure this septuagenarian about life’s truths.
“It’s exactly that easy.” She turns my face to hers. “If you love him, then you love him. And you’ll fight and sometimes you’ll hate. You may even pack your bags, more than once. But something will stop you and life will continue until you are old looking at each other with knowing smiles and open hearts. Love is not butterflies and romance, although you need those. It’s so much more, and it will free you if you let it, Margo. Love is hard and ugly sometimes but worth the effort always. And when you fight and cry and wonder how you even chose this man the next day he will amaze you and you will realize he feels the same way about you sometimes. It is humbling to know we are none of us perfect at this game. And only then you’ll realize you don’t want anyone else and you love even their flaws and you can only hope they love yours.”
“But you had a commonality. You were Cuban.”
“And he was rich, and I was poor. He was educated, and I was a dancer. He abandoned his family for me. We didn’t know this was our future,” she waved her hand around the lavish room. “Love – that was the easy part. Then we worked and hoped and with time we found patience to let life unfold slowly. We learned to appreciate the many layers even as we struggled against what we thought was an unbearably slow pace.”
The sad look on my face touches her because she hugs me tightly and lets me hold onto her much longer than I should. When she feels me relax, she pushes away gently and says, “Now, I’m hungry Margo. I want my paella.”
She sits with me as I cook. She tells me how her husband started a cigar factory when they first moved here. From there, he began a restaurant and then cleaners and then a small bank. They had five children. Three live in Tampa and two overseas. She says she’ll miss her grandchildren, twelve of them and great grandchildren, four and counting. I can only imagine this great house filled with their laughter. I start to set the table, and she stops me.
“Set two places,” she says.
I nod with a smile thinking the other is for her husband’s memory. When the table is beautiful, and the food is ready she says, “let’s eat.” I must look confused because she adds, “of course, you’ll eat with me? Didn’t you say that paella was dish really meant for two?” I nod laughing now at my educating this lady about paella. “So you will eat with me and go home and live, and you’ll see the only magic in your food is its ability to bring people together in communion.”
So we eat our paella and drink her five hundred dollar Rothschild. She helps me clean, and her man helps me pack my car. “Now go home Margo and call Mark. Pride will get you nowhere. And forget about that sassy tongue of yours. I like this softer side of you.”
She gives me the best grandma hug I’ve had in a long time, and again, she doesn’t end it until I’m ready. The words I want to say to her are stuck behind that lump in my throa
t.
“Margo, I’m eighty five. Save your tears for someone more deserving than this blessed old woman.” She kisses my cheeks and sends me along.
I make it to the end of the block before the tears flood, and I have to pull over. I cry and cry and cry. Finally, I cry. And for some reason, I’m ready to call Mark, but I don’t want to call and let him know I’m crying. So I drink some water and try to talk a little to get the hoarseness out. And then I realize this is stupid, and I should just call. So I do, and I get voice mail. I’m disappointed, but I leave a message anyway.
“Mark, it’s Margo. You know that.” I roll my eyes trying to pick better words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve never been good at showing my emotions. And I hide behind my smart ass tongue. I’d blame my family but I’m thirty four and the blame is mine. I miss you and I need you and I’m not sure love is a big enough word for what I feel for you. And I’ve known this for a long time. It’s what I’ve been fighting against. If you give me another chance, I promise to think before speaking. And I promise not to panic when things like ever after come up. Ummm, anyway, this isn’t the way I wanted to say all of this. I can say it better to your face. Please call me.”
***
What I don’t know as I hang up is that his phone was lost in a raid that day. He’s waiting for his new one to arrive, and they are swamped with work. I don’t know that he’s been trying to figure out how to call me and have the sort of do or die conversation upon which relationships so often hinge. So when he doesn’t call back Wednesday night or Thursday, by Friday, I’m fully depressed. Camilo calls around three in the afternoon. I’ve asked Mom to watch Sam for me because this is going to be a sad, sad night. I’ve held it together through the past two days. But now my will is broken by Mark’s rightful dismissal, and I need to cry.
“Run, gorgeous?” His voice is always so silky.
“Not today, Camilo.” I wipe some tears away.
“Gorgeous, I’m done with this sadness. I can’t take it. Come get in my bed, and I’ll make you happy again.”
I laugh because if anything could that could. “Why don’t you take me dancing instead?” I have no idea where that came from, but suddenly the idea of staying in to cry myself to sleep seems really, really, lame.
“You want to go dancing now?”
“I’m manic.”
“I see this,” he laughs. “Hyde Park?”
He means Hyde Park Café, not a favorite place of mine but he likes it so I say, “sure.”
“I’ll pick you up, nine?” Latinos never get going early.
“No I’ll meet you.” I can tell he doesn’t like that, but I say, “Meet me out front.”
“Whatever my Margo wants,” he says. Suddenly I realize Camilo isn’t such a player. He’s just a super hot guy who’s had way too many options for way too long.
***
As I fish through my things in my closet, I turn to my New York side. Don’t ask when it happened but somehow my clothes got separated into New York and Tampa. It is probably because my New York clothes are just a little too much for this Capri and sandal wearing town. I dig until I pull out a little slip of a dress. It is the first semi-couture thing I ever bought, using one of my bonus checks. It was stupid expensive. It comes up to here on my thighs, and it’s almost dangerous to sit in. Flowing and fitting with a cut out back, it’s pure sex, and I’m kind of proud that I look better in it now than I ever did before in younger times. It hails from my Bungalow 8 days and the very few times I frequented that hyper-pretentious, soulless abyss. Since I’m going to Tampa’s version of that place tonight, I might as well wear the uniform.
I get down on my knees and start digging through comfortable shoes and flip flops until I get to my New York shoes. I dust off a pair of strappy Jimmy Choos that were bought to go with the dress. I can’t believe I ever traipsed around Manhattan in these things. I’m having a hard time balancing in them now. Then I do some make up and blow dry the hair nice and full. My hair is pretty straight so the sex goddess thing I’ve got it doing right now will be limp about an hour into the evening but for the moment it looks good.
Camilo is waiting for me out front. He’s been texting me making sure I’m ok. He doesn’t like that I’m meeting him, but I’m not up for another Camilo driving experience. Anyway, tonight I’m dancing not drinking. Dancing is about a thousand times more therapeutic for me than drinking. I have to say it feels pretty good to have every single male eye, and no few jealous female eyes, on me as I walk up to Camilo. I look good tonight, and I know it, and it feels good to know it. Camilo seems to agree with my vain perception. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me close. His mouth is dangerously close to consuming mine.
“Gorgeous,” he’s staring at my mouth. “Let’s forget about this place and go back to mine.”
I shake my head. “You promised me dancing.” I can hear the music pounding. I’m excited. I love to dance. My ex didn’t dance so I spent eight long years watching from the sidelines.
“We can dance at my place.” His hand is running over my butt and pulling me even closer.
“I’m not interested in that kind of dancing tonight.” I’m smiling. Who wouldn’t be flattered to have this guy clamoring to get you in bed?
He sighs and lets me go and takes my hand. “Ok, dancing it is.”
And do we dance. It is full body, get jiggy with it, do the sprinkler, laugh out loud dancing. We dance serious. We dance silly. We dance until we’re sweating. And Camilo can dance - no surprise there. Christina Aguilera’s ‘Ain’t No Other Man’ comes on. We totally bust it. He’s doing the Ricky Martin up to me as I’m laughing. I throw my head, and as I do, I see Mark, and I freeze. And what the F!@#? What is he doing here? And all of his friends too? They are beer and pretzels kind of guys. Then I remember that we were supposed to go out with Alan to celebrate his birthday. And I remember that Alan’s girlfriend likes this place and so we were suppose to come here. And then I think, God, I really am self destructive. And then he turns and walks out without a wave, smile, or obscene gesture. The shock is billowing through me. Camilo brings me near and cups my face as he speaks into my ear.
“So you go and talk to him.” I’m shaking my head. What could I possibly say? “Yes, you pick a word. And once you do, another will follow and eventually you will have said everything that needs to be said. And whatever happens then happens, but it’s over and you didn’t run away from it.” Camilo, the prophetic.
He kisses both of my cheeks gently before he turns me with a small push in the direction of where Mark just left. I’ve taken no more than one step away from Camilo when a swarm of women flock, like flies to honey. I take the cowardly route walking a wide berth around Mark’s friends. If it were legal to shoot someone on the grounds of loyalty and outrage, I’d be dead right now. Crystal is beaming a hateful smile that I wish I could wipe off her face, but she’s right. Tonight I’m the Bebe ho.
***
“Mark, wait,” I call and he stops and turns around. He’s not happy.
“Are you sleeping with him?” Actually, he’s angry, storming toward me, and indifferent to the people staring.
I guess my, “no,” comes on a hesitation because he throws an air punch before turning to walk away.
“Wait! Wait!” I call. He turns back around. “I’m not. I mean, I did, once, a long time ago, way before you and I were anything but ships in the night.”
“But you knew me?”
I nod confused, “what and you haven’t been with anyone else but me?”
He shakes his head, “No, not since I met you. I’ve spent a year trying to figure out how not to scare you off. I thought you were like a doe in headlights. Now I’m thinking you’re like a raccoon, pure destruction.” For some reason, I’m wondering where these animal metaphors are coming from. Is he a hunter? Focus Margo, focus. “You’re all I’ve wanted, and I can’t figure out why anymore.”
That hurts. “But…”
He cuts me
off. “I can have women, Margo. And I have. I see Krista everywhere. I avoid her now because I don’t want to spend an evening listening to her begging and apologizing. Even when I was still angry about the breakup, I saw her with other men, but it never did anything to me like that just did.” He’s pointing to the club we just left. “I feel like I just got hit by a prizefighter. And you’re in there get funky with that pretty boy!”
I laugh. I can’t smother it. Camilo is a total pretty boy, and it’s funny hearing that come from Mark, a likewise babe.
“Don’t laugh. This isn’t funny. I’m being serious.”
“I know you are. I know you are.” I’m trying desperately to smother my smile. Laughter is a terrible nervous tic of mine. He turns and continues to walk away for a few steps before he stops.
“Shit!” He turns back around in frustration.
“What?” I’m hoping he wants to continue the conversation.
“I didn’t drive,” he says and right then he coughs and he sounds terrible.
“Are you sick?” I walk up to him. He nods and coughs again. I reach out my hand to feel his temple, but he flinches. I give him an exasperated look and put my hand on his forehead. He’s really hot. “You have a fever. Why are you out?”
“I told Alan I’d celebrate his birthday.” That’s Mark, blindly loyal.
“Let me take you home.” He’s shaking his head. “Please, you’re always taking care of me. Let me take care of you for once.”
He’s silent for a minute then says, “I thought you didn’t want to.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I smile, sadly. “I want to tonight.”
“What about pretty boy?”
“Let me let him know.” A strange river of calm is running through me right now as I smile at Mark. I text Camilo: gotta run. He texts back: my Margo. I answer with a smile. “Ok, let’s go.”
Mark is annoyed, probably because I’m smiling a little from my exchange with Camilo. We’re in the car, and now he’s even more annoyed because I wouldn’t let him drive. I turn on my ipod and Sting’s ‘I’m So Happy I Can’t Stop Crying’ is on. It’s been my anthem for the last year. I start to sing because that’s what I do in the car. Sam and I have some great routines together. ‘Mac the Knife’ is a favorite. Mark’s never seen this Margo. I’ve kept her locked in the basement for too long now. I’m belting out how Sting is nostalgic for a friend who’s down from divorce. Mark’s surprised by my singing. I’m not very good, but I’m enthusiastic. Sting has come to the part where peace and absolution is washing over him. This is the part I hate, but not tonight for some reason.