Chapter Nineteen
I double-checked the event on our family calendar: Cuban family dinner.
The ingredients patiently waited in the kitchen. The dad who’d promised to cook it, on the other hand—MIA.
I texted him again. The do-not-disturb notification glared from the bottom of our text thread.
Starting dinner without you, I tapped. The text went off with a swoosh.
Still no reply.
I let out a groan, giving Chewbacca a run for his money.
Now this meal became another problem to fix. Usually this gave me purpose. Today, I bristled.
I grabbed my planner. Swung my legs off the mattress. Stomped out of my room.
I didn’t shut my eyes going down the hallway this time. It was like rewinding time, ending back when we were all together again. Like the happy families populating Mandy’s grid.
I turned into the kitchen. At least Po was here as planned. Laptop open, chewing on the end of a pen with her purple lips. How could she be in a good mood when Dad was hours late and nowhere to be found?
Less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d not only confirmed dinner (good), but he’d also stopped by Sprouts to pick up the ingredients (even better).
And now he’d poofed, vanishing like fog-machine smoke.
Under Mandy’s tutelage, I’d finally learn how to transform his short-lived spurts of fatherhood into a forever type of deal.
Until then, I tempered my aggravation by flinging open cabinets. Drawers. The fridge door. Yanking out all the stuff needed to make tonight’s picadillo and tostones. Piling it all onto the island.
I zeroed in on the onion.
I’d watched Mom slice (or was it dice?) loads of them. Even though I hardly cooked anything outside of scrambled eggs, how hard could it be?
Cutting board: check. Knife: check. Now I had to remember some of her movements. Without peeling the onion, I chopped it in half. The thwack of the blade hit the wood. Both halves of the onion rolled down different sides of the island, thudding onto the floor. Peachy.
“I thought you were applying for the fairy godmother internship, not auditioning for the next Scream.” Po lifted herself from the chair; her combat boots clomped across the kitchen.
“Har, har, har.” I dropped to my knees and reached for an onion half.
Po grabbed the other one. “Hey, what’s going on?” she asked, her voice breezy as ever.
I should’ve expected as much. Here I was, a disgruntled daughter, while Po wore her purple lipstick. As much as I wanted to unload some of my feelings, I swallowed them.
I shouldn’t ruin her good mood by going Eeyore on her. Not when she exuded Tigger energy.
“Attempting to cook dinner,” I said. “What’s going on with you? Flirting with Paulina?” I refrained from reminding her not to let things get too steamy until after the party.
“Sadly, no. I was checking out Alma’s website again. I think I prefer it to UCI. Thanks again for badgering me about college.”
“De nada.” At one section of my family’s vision board sharpening into focus, I exhaled more of my frustration.
Po placed the onion on the chopping block. “I thought Dad was supposed to do this for us. Don’t you want to wait?”
I shook my head. “He’s not answering his phone and I’m too hungry.” I got back to dicing. Redirecting my icky feelings into chop-chop-chops.
Po scrunched her face.
“So what if my techniques are slasher-like?” I asked. “It will still get food into our bellies.”
I brought my attention back to the onions, totally not in the mood for Po to start excusing Dad’s bad behavior. To say some nonsense about “three steps forward, one step back.”
A step back was still going backward. Not pa’lante. And all I wanted was for us to move toward the HEA sketched in my head.
My eyes burned. Tears pooled. I wiped them away with the back of my sleeve before they made a grand entrance.
“It’s okay, Little Cuchara.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Go sit down. I’ll cook.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just the onions.”
She took her hand from my shoulder and grabbed my wrist “Picadillo calls for ‘diced’ onion, not onion puree. I think you can move on to this.” She pressed a smaller chopping block and green pepper into my hands.
I traced a finger over its firm, waxy skin. “This shade of green would look good on you.” It would be the perfect color for the art-auction invites and fall-inspired Pinterest boards.
Or as a stroke of watercolor across a blank canvas.
The onions hissed when they hit the oiled pan. While I’d been in my color-palette reverie, Po had already peeled and minced the garlic. “Get cracking on the green pepper. I also need oregano and the cumin,” she said.
Curls of steam and scents began to wrap around her. A pink glow burnished her cheekbones. Probably from standing right over a burning flame. Except something about the way she glowed made me think the fire came from within her.
Whether excitement over college or her crush stoked it, I couldn’t tell. In case it was the latter, I didn’t press. That’d simply open the door for her to ask about Javi.
Hmm. Should I tell her about him anyway? I bit my lips.
No. Telling her now would be like layering on a coat of paint before the last one had dried. Best to wait a little longer. Make sure the picture between Javi and me was more in focus before I showed it to her.
I set the spices and herbs on the counter.
“Thanks,” Po said. In a thick Cuban accent, she added, “Now, don’t forget the second most important ingredient.”
One of Mom’s lines. Whenever we’d helped her cook, she’d always said that. I expected the impersonation to cleave into my rib cage the way I’d hacked into the poor onion.
Most times, I couldn’t even bring myself to replay Mom’s sayings inside my head. So hearing them from someone else’s lips… uttered by someone who, until recently, sailed past most mention of her?
A pang of hurt went through me, yes. Except it was more like when I ran the tip of my tongue over the spots where I got my wisdom teeth pulled. It sucked to rediscover the gaping holes left behind. It was more odd to discover relief.
So much of Mom had been lost. Now her words were being spoken again, inside her happiest place after Disneyland. A twinge of joy fluttered inside me.
“Second most important ingredient coming right up,” I said.
Good thing Po’s back was turned, because my hands shook when I approached the tablet propped upright against a stand. The iPad technically belonged to the family. In reality, the sole owner had always been Mom.
It housed her recipes. Organized her spreadsheets. Compiled her playlists.
With two super-traditional Cuban dishes on tonight’s menu, should we play something from her guajira list? I tapped Benny Moré’s “Bonito y Sabroso.”
The sway of congo drums and brass danced with the scents filling the kitchen. Benny’s bright voice followed next. He crooned about people who danced beautifully and deliciously.
Like Javi.
Po browned the beef. And apparently also read my mind. “Thinking about your guy, are you?” she said.
What was the point in lying to her? “Maybe. Are you thinking about your girl?”
“Maybe.” She grinned. Before I could warn her about the danger of us playing with fire, she said, “Bring me the—”
I handed her the cups filled with the olives, raisins, and capers, my arms’ muscle memory springing back to life.
“When are you seeing him, BTW?”
“I guess the same time you’re seeing Paulina.” I poured the sherry vinegar into a tablespoon. It hissed when it hit the skillet. “At the quince dress and tux fitting.”
The pink on her cheeks deepened into a crimson. It clashed with her purple lipstick. I sighed. “You’re seeing Paulina before, aren’t you?”
She winked. Yes, I was happy for her—for both of them—and yet… “Po, don’t you think you should wait to date until after the party?” I said, part plea, part prayer. “Because if things get messier—”
She pointed a wooden mixing spoon at me. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Your internship. Paulina’s film school.” She went back to stirring. “I won’t screw that up for either of you. I swear.” Her face lit up. “Did you know the dance-rehearsal video has almost more views than any of her Disney corn-dog challenges?”
I snorted. “Jeez, I wonder why those are her most popular videos.” She playfully swatted my hand with the spoon. “Ow!” I brought my hand to my mouth in faux pain, pressing my tongue to the spot where she’d whacked me.
Wow. The spices really enhanced the savoriness of the beef. The sweetness of the raisins offset the olives’ saltiness. “This is good, Po. Better than any picadillo Dad’s ever made.”
“Really?” She flashed a smile, the wattage brighter than all the kitchen lights combined. “I got so many messages about the hot dogs the other day.” She turned back to the skillet, lowering the heat. The beef simmered. “What’s the next SBA event?”
“The art auction.”
“Cool.” She pressed her fingernails into the wooden sides of the spoon. “Um, do you think I can help cater that, too?”
“We are going to be making it bigger this year, so yes, catering will probably be involved.” Why hadn’t I thought of this before? “I’ll pitch your services to the committee. Between us, though, consider the gig yours.” My lips quirked upward. Sometimes an iron fist did come in handy. “Do you want to make the hot dogs again?”
She shook her head. “Hear me out before you say no…”
Po had the idea of shaping the tostones into small cups and stuffing the insides with spoonfuls of the picadillo. To prove it could work, she made a few prototypes.
She set a platter on the kitchen table. Mouth watering, I lifted one for closer inspection. Ground beef glittered with seasoning. I gave the sides of it a squeeze. Who knew twice-fried plantains could be so pliable?
I popped one into my mouth and groaned from the deliciousness. “Perfect hors d’oeuvres for the auction.”
She jumped up and down, clapping.
“But they are also perfect for”—I sprang from the chair, darting across the kitchen to grab the iPad—“this.” I extended it to her. “You should add it to the recipes.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You really think so?” she asked.
“I do.” After hearing Mom’s music, her words, and now enjoying her food again… I remembered what Javi had said the other night about stars.
Mom’s starlight kept shining. If Po and I tended to its fire, we could make sure it always did. “Take it.”
She cracked her knuckles and massaged her palms the way she often did before volleyball matches, then took it. “What do you think about calling them PSTs? Picadillo-stuffed tostones?”
“I love it,” I said.
Her fingertips moved across the screen. Right when she hit Save, a text pinged.
I took a sidelong peek. Sorry, got stuck at work. On my way.
“Well, well, well, look who finally decided to make an appearance,” I said, biting into another PST.
Po set the iPad on the table. “I can hear that eye-roll,” she said through a mouthful of her new creation. “Have you ever thought about cutting Dad some slack every now and then?”
My mouth fell open. A half-chewed raisin landed onto the table. After hooking her up with two summer jobs, she really had the nerve to ask? “You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not.” She swallowed loudly. “People do the best they can with the tools they got.”
“Well, Dr. Phil,” I snapped. “If that’s true, Dad’s got no tools.”
“That’s exactly my point, Einstein.”
“Then he should make a pit stop at Ace Hardware. I could drop him a pin; it’s on the way home.” I stuffed another PST into my mouth, preferring to chew than discuss this any further. If these weren’t so damn good, I would’ve lost my appetite.
“Fine. Forget I said anything. Should we at least save some of these for him?” She motioned to the last few PSTs. “But I’m also still hungo, sooo. I’m down to finish them if you are.”
“Finally, a plan I can get behind.”
Po shook her head, trying hard not to laugh. She picked up the tablet again, checking out the family calendar. “Him being late is a good thing, ya know.”
I tilted my head.
“He’s missing dinner, but we’re missing the birds-and-the-bees talk,” she said, pointing to the event Dad had set.
I bit my lips, but a laugh broke through anyway. Thank you, Universe, for silver linings.