Standing upon his grandmother’s porch minutes later, he instantly knew that the strange turn she’d taken had deepened and twisted around their world like a thick and thorny vine, choking out what little normalcy remained. He noted the intense glow of candlelight through the window, and a myriad of boxes and packing paper strewn all over the porch, making it look like she’d either been shopping or was preparing to move. He sniffed the air and realized the delicious smell he’d detected by the mailbox was stronger than ever. He entered the house to find that most of the floor was covered with additional boxes and paper. The rocking chair, where Lola had previously spent most of her time, was overflowing with the same, and on almost every flat surface candles of every size were burning brightly. Squat orange candles on the coffee table, and thick white pillar candles on the window sills. On the kitchen table red tapered candles were aflame, and the melted wax dripping down the stems looked like thick tears of blood.
Sebastian felt the fragrant heat all around and permeating through him. He’d never seen so many candles burning at once. The light they created was alive, and it moved through the space like a mystical breeze, a spirit of warmth.
Lola was in the kitchen hunched over a large boiling pot, stirring frantically and muttering to herself. Clouds of steam wafted up past her face toward the ceiling, and with her red hair sticking out, she looked like a witch at her cauldron, concocting a poisonous brew. She was so absorbed, that she didn’t notice Sebastian standing in the middle of the room watching her. Over the counter were scattered bowls and pots and pans of all sizes. He’d never seen the kitchen such a mess.
“Abuela, what are you doing?” he finally asked.
She looked up with a start. Her glasses were fogged over, but she didn’t bother cleaning them. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
He took another step forward, drawn by the enticing aroma. “You’re cooking,” he said.
“Bingo!” Lola replied, and she resumed stirring, her head bobbing furiously as she worked the spoon round and round.
Sebastian stepped in closer. “Mom’s going to be really mad at you.”
“And what will she do?” Lola replied with a bright cackle. “Send me to bed without my dinner?” Then she lifted her spoon and waited for three thick drips to land on her palm. She slurped these up, then puckered and smacked her lips. She pondered her taste buds for a moment before adding a pinch of something from one of several small bowls she had lined up on the counter, and stirred it in. Then she turned to Sebastian. “Taste this sauce and tell me what you think,” she commanded.
Sebastian obediently walked forward with his hand extended, and Lola allowed three thick drops of brown sauce to puddle into it as well. He glanced at her shyly before slurping it up, and then paused, somewhat confused. He’d never tasted anything quite like it. It was rich and savory, sweet and spicy all at once, and the flavors lingered like a beautiful melody on his tongue. It was, in short, delicious.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked.
“It’s good,” Sebastian said, craving more.
She propped her hands on her hips. “That’s all you have to say? Just good?”
“It’s very good,” he said, and he was prepared to take it further and tell her it was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life, when he caught sight of something on the counter behind her. Piled high on a large platter were several chunky prehistoric looking bones, something ancient people might’ve used to bang on their crude drums.
Noticing his interest, she said, “Those are lamb shanks. I would’ve made cabrito, but it’s hard to find at supermarkets around here. It used to be easy to find on the island, but these days they tell me that it’s almost impossible to get. I’ll have to go downtown and order it special one day.”
“What is cabrito?” Sebastian asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the strange looking meat.
“Goat,” she replied.
“You eat… goats? The animal that goes Bleeeaaaaat?” he asked, making the same sound he’d performed for Keith and his gang a few weeks ago.
“Of course I do. You come from a long line of goat lovers. Your great grandmother taught me how to make goat. Actually, she didn’t really teach me. I learned how to make it the same way I learned how to walk and talk and climb trees. You see, back on the island learning was natural and easy. It didn’t require a whole lot of effort like it does here, it just happened in the same way orchids grow in the jungle all by themselves without a gardener or a greenhouse.”
Sebastian tore his eyes away from the lamb shanks to look up into his grandmother’s face. “But…you…you really eat goats?” he asked again.
Lola was annoyed by her grandson’s incredulousness. “I’ve been eating it all my life, but the first time I tried it, I was even younger than you and…” She stopped to consider him with a wary eye. “No, I don’t think I should tell you this story. You may not like it very much.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because it requires a strong stomach.”
Sebastian threw his shoulders back. After his bold act of defiance at the afterschool program, he felt pretty tough. “I can handle it,” he said. Lola thought about it for a moment, and then turned the flame down on the stove. She began to tell her story with a voice that was as powerful and vibrant as the flavors that still lingered on Sebastian’s tongue.
My oldest sister Tamara, may she rest in peace, was getting married, and we were planning a big feast to celebrate her wedding. She was the first one to find a husband, and my parents had four other girls to marry off, so they were eager to get the show rolling. Money was short, but they ordered a beautiful white wedding dress for her, and lovely yellow dresses for the rest of us. My mother and I spent countless hours making the capias, intricate lacy favors, each one embroidered by hand with the date of the wedding and the names of the bride and groom. We had to make enough for two hundred guests, and every night after the others went to sleep we worked on them, sometimes until the sun came up the next morning.
The wedding preparations were going very well, and everyone was excited about the big party that was planned for after the ceremony. I was excited too until the day before the wedding when I discovered the little cabrito tied to a tree a few yards from the house. He was a baby, and the fur around his ears was still soft so I knew this was probably the first time he’d been separated from his mother. I knelt down to nuzzle him, but while I whispered comforting words to my new little friend, I heard the sound of the blade shrieking against the wetting stone in the kitchen.
By the time my father appeared with his sharpened knife, I was convinced that this was the most precious creature that had ever lived and that, wedding or no wedding, he should be spared. I tried to persuade my father of the same with tears and a fair amount of begging, but he wasn’t moved. He pried me away from the goat, and after saying a brief prayer, he took firm hold of the small animal with one hand and readied his knife with the other.
But before he could strike I threw myself on the ground. “No Papi, please don’t kill my Cabrito,” I cried.
“We can’t have a wedding, and serve nothing but rice and beans,” he said. “Can you imagine how upset your sister will be if we do that?”
“I don’t care about the wedding. All I care about is my cabrito.”
“Get inside,” my father commanded, pointing his knife toward the house. “I paid good money for this goat, and you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.” And he was right because now the cabrito was struggling against my father, and his eyes were fearful as though he finally understood what was going to happen to him. But my father managed to get a firm grasp of him again.
I was preparing to go into the house so that I wouldn’t have to see him die, but at that moment, the little cabrito looked at me. His eyes were pleading with me to accept his fate, and to stay with him and give him strength - to be present, nothing more.
“Papa,” I said. “Let me stay, and I promise that I won’t
cry anymore.”
He thought about this, and when he saw that I was indeed calmer, he allowed me to place my hand on the cabrito’s back which instantly calmed him too. After one swift swipe of the blade, I felt the cabrito start and shudder beneath my hand. Blood poured from his throat in a thick stream, creating a red river at our feet. As the flow lessened, his front knees buckled and after several minutes he collapsed in my father’s arms. I wanted to cry when I saw him lying motionless on the ground, but I held my tears.
The next day, I brushed my hair, put on my new dress, and went outside to the place where the carcass was slowly roasting. The aroma was intoxicating, and I paused for a moment to savor it. And then, when I thought no one was watching, I took a handful of the beautiful capias my mother and I had made and tossed them into the fire. They flared up and turned into ash within seconds. Little did I know that my mother was watching me from the kitchen window and she scolded me severely. She told me that for that misdeed she would think long and hard about giving me a wedding when my turn came. I cried a river of tears, and my mother was angry with me for quite some time, but it was worth it.
When Lola finished her story, she turned her attention back to the pot simmering on the stove.
“But I don’t understand Abuela Lola,” Sebastian said. “Why did you throw the capias in the fire? What difference did it make if the little goat was already dead?”
“I wanted to thank him with a sacrifice of my own, and mine was by far the easiest to make,” Lola said as she sprinkled more seasoning into the pot.
Sebastian pondered his grandmother’s story, but he felt only sadness when he imagined the little goat tied to the tree waiting to die.
Lola perked up and pointed to the living room floor. “I asked the taxi driver to help me with my bags, and I’m not sure where he put the one with the potato masher. See if you can find it.”
Sebastian wasn’t quite sure what a potato masher looked like, but he began to search through the bags until he found a strange looking instrument with a handle on one end and sturdy wire mesh on the other. Lola directed him to bring it to the counter where she had another steaming pot waiting as well as a step stool for Sebastian so he could easily reach the counter. She removed the lid, and through the steam Sebastian beheld many peeled and quartered potatoes. Next to the pot she placed a large slab of butter, a container of cream, and two bowls one filled with salt and the other with pepper.
“While I finish this sauce, you’ll make the mash,” she said. “Of course, back home, you’d be making sorullitos, corn meal fritters, but we’ll take it one step at a time.”
Sebastian stared blankly at the ingredients. He’d never seen anyone make mashed potatoes from scratch before. Whenever his mother made them, they came out of a box.
“But Abuela, I don’t know how to make mashed potatoes,” he said in a slightly whiney voice.
“Everything you need is right under your nose. You can figure it out, but be careful. The pot is very hot.”
Sebastian surveyed the ingredients again, and then tentatively stuck the masher into the potatoes. They were soft and squishy which encouraged him. He reached for the cream, but hesitated, thinking that maybe he should add the butter first. There was another container filled with a cloudy liquid, but he had no idea what to do with that.
“Go on,” Lola said, with a nod. “Just mix it all together, it won’t explode.”
Sebastian slowly poured in the cream and watched it flow over the potatoes. He tossed the butter into the pot next. It was wonderful to see how the golden pieces melted and swirled, disappearing into the hot cream and potatoes almost like magic. He took up his masher and began to work it into the pot up and down with increasing strength and confidence. The aroma made his mouth water, as he grabbed the masher with both hands and began to pound away more vigorously.
“Don’t get too carried away,” Lola said. “The potatoes could get gummy and lose their creamy texture. She inspected the mixture and added some of the cloudy liquid. Then she took the masher away, and gave him a big metal spoon. “I always reserve a cup or two of the cooking water in case the potatoes are too dry. You can stir it right in.”
Sebastian didn’t enjoy stirring as much as mashing, but there was no doubt that the texture of the potato mixture was improving with each revolution of his spoon. Every now and then he stopped, and put his nose into the pot to inhale the fragrance of fresh potatoes, butter and cream which he found irresistible.
“Have a taste,” Lola said. “Every good cook tastes his own food before he allows others to eat it.”
Sebastian did as she directed, and gone was the thin cardboard flavor and chemical after taste he was used to. All he savored was the delicious goodness of the ingredients, pure, simple and deeply satisfying. He loved the thick creamy texture of it and wanted to dip his spoon in again and again until the entire pot was empty.
“Is it good?” Lola asked.
He nodded enthusiastically, his mouth full.
“Wait until you taste the lamb,” she said. “You’ll think you died and went to heaven.”
Sebastian stole a wary glance at the shanks, and very much doubted his grandmother’s prediction, but he’d be more than happy to make a meal of the mashed potatoes on this night and every night thereafter. Suddenly, he remembered what had been weighing on his mind all day and night, and put the lid back on the pot. “Mom and Dad had another fight,” he said.
Lola set her spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron. It had been awhile since Sebastian mentioned any trouble between his parents which she hoped was a sign that things were getting better.
“What happened?” she asked.
Sebastian told his grandmother everything that happened with Ms. Ashworth and the note and how his father had accused his mother of disappearing. “I don’t understand why Dad said that. Mom didn’t disappear.”
Lola thought about how she might explain this to her grandson, and then motioned for him to stand next to her as she deposited the meaty bones into the pot one at a time. They each fell to the bottom and were concealed by the dark liquid. “The lamb shanks are still there,” she said, “but they’re covered up by the sauce so we can’t see them anymore. It’s the same with people sometimes. Over the years they get covered up by sadness and anger and so many hurts that you can’t see them anymore, but they’re still there. I think that might be what your father meant,” she said.
Sebastian gazed at the thick brown sauce that was simmering away, and he wondered what could be causing his mother so much pain that she would allow herself to sink to the bottom. He wanted to ask his grandmother many more questions about this and what they might do to pull her out when Terrence poked his head through the door, this time empty handed.
“Hello there, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay over here.”
“Oh Terrence,” Lola said somewhat flustered. “You got my message?”
“They told me you cancelled your order and all future orders, if that’s what you mean.”
“Yes, but I also told them that I still wanted you to come by and visit me.”
“I’m afraid they don’t want me visiting people unless I’m making a delivery so I can’t stay long,” he said gazing around the room. “What happened in here?”
“Sebastian and I have been cooking and you came just in time. You will be our guinea pig.”
Lola left the kitchen and promptly took Terrence by the hand, pulling him through the boxes toward the table. He looked bewildered as he sat in the chair she offered him, and when he looked to Sebastian, he was not reassured by his dubious expression. Sebastian could vouch for the potatoes, but as far as that strange looking meat was concerned, he’d rather not say.
Lola was humming a little tune as she served up a generous portion of mash potatoes in the center of the plate. Over that she placed one of the meaty bones and ladled her sauce over it which was now as thick as syrup. She walked toward the table with the steaming plate in bot
h hands, and placed it before Terrence who eyed it suspiciously.
“Don’t say a word yet,” she said handing him a fork. “Eat first and then tell me what you think.”
Terrence assembled a fairly generous portion of potato and meat onto his fork. As he chewed, his gaze softened with wonder, and before he swallowed he was already preparing another forkful. “This is the best lamb I’ve ever had in my entire life.”
“Really?” Lola said, scrunching her apron with delight. “It’s been so long, that I was afraid I might have forgotten how to make it.”
“You surely didn’t forget,” Terrence mumbled, his mouth full.
“Sebastian made the mashed potatoes,” she said, and Terrence gave him the thumbs up.
Watching him eat, Sebastian was tempted to try some himself. Perhaps it wasn’t as frightening as it looked. Already one step ahead of him, Lola served her grandson a smaller plate than she’d served Terrence, but it was still the largest plate of food he’d ever been served in his life. The hunk of meat under his nose was almost as big as his arm.
Feeling only slightly courageous, he pulled away the tiniest sliver of meat, and popped it into his mouth. It wasn’t bad at all, but he hadn’t eaten enough to assess it properly so he pulled away a large juicy piece. The flavors burst in his mouth at once, an intoxicating blend of savory and sweet reminiscent of bacon and raisins, and the firm silken texture of the meat was succulent beyond anything he’d ever experienced. And there was a delightful tartness that danced on his tongue. Like Terrence, he couldn’t get another piece into his mouth fast enough.
Lola served herself next and closed her eyes when she had the first bite. It had been years since she’d tasted her own cooking, and it was even better than she remembered. The three sat together thoroughly enjoying their meal as the candle light flickered all around them. And Lola with her flaming red hair sticking up on end, was the brightest flame of all.
They were nearly finished with their meal when Gloria entered the bungalow. At first, she wasn’t sure she was in the right place. The sight of so many candles burning everywhere made her feel dizzy, and the smell of the food was as intoxicating as it was familiar. All of this set her senses reeling, and suddenly she was a little girl back on the island and she could feel the warm embrace of the tropical breeze and taste the sweet current of love and belonging she’d always felt there. Her instinct was to savor it for a moment or two longer, but she couldn’t indulge herself like this when she had more pressing matters to attend to.
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