“Dad,” Koa says, resigned to the fact that my first impression involves flashing my underwear and tossing my meal to the chickens, “this is Jinx.”
Keoni Hale steps out from the barbecue area, built like a man who’s worked the land his whole life and enjoyed every minute of it. Salt-and-pepper beard, kind eyes that crinkle at the corners from decades of outdoor living, hands that could probably fix anything up to and including my shattered dignity.
“Aloha, Jinx,” Keoni welcomes me as the party rages around us, even though I’m still fighting the good fight with my grandmotherly pantaloons while chickens surround me with the expectant energy of starving customers at a buffet. “Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you,” I manage, finally achieving some semblance of control over my clothing. “And Happy birthday, Linda,” I say with a wince as I look at his mother and pray my underwear didn’t somehow upstage her big day. “I’m usually much more coordinated than this.” And better at calendar management, but I leave that part out. It’s not all that true anyway. It’s not my fault, it’s easy to lose track of the days of the week in paradise.
Linda laughs like a woman who’s managed three sons and their various romantic disasters. “Honey, if we judged people by their first ten minutes here, half the family would never have made it past the front gate. Keoni fell off the veranda during our first visit and landed in the pig pen.”
“The pig pen was strategically located,” Keoni protests mildly. I can see Koa and both of his brothers in his father’s face. And it’s clear that Koa has his mother’s smile. My heart warms just looking at them.
“Everything on this island is strategically located according to you,” Linda waves him off with a playful exasperation, as if she’s been having this argument for decades.
A small army of relatives materializes from various locations around the compound like a flash mob with excellent timing but zero crowd control skills.
Aunties emerge from the kitchen carrying more food than should physically fit in any residential dwelling, uncles appear from the barbecue area dispensing opinions about proper meat preparation, and cousins of various ages begin the traditional Hawaiian family greeting ritual of examining the newcomer with the thoroughness of scientists studying a fascinating new species.
“Jinx!” Loco calls out, approaching with a woman who looks like she could teach kindergarten or run a small country with equal competence. “This is Kailani, my girlfriend. Kailani, this is the woman who’s been keeping my big brother out of trouble.”
Kailani has a warm smile that immediately makes you feel like you’ve been friends since childhood. She’s stunning in a red lace dress that clings to her figure. She has long dark locks, copper skin that glows in the night, and a smile that could rival the sun.
“Aloha,” she says, giving me a hug that suggests I’ve already been accepted into whatever sisterhood governs the romantic partners of Hale brothers. “I teach second grade, so I’m used to managing chaos and cleaning up spills. You’re going to fit right in.”
“You know me well already,” I tease. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
Shaka arrives next with a tall blonde woman who’s got a zen composure that suggests extensive yoga practice or very effective anxiety medication. She’s wearing flowing clothes in natural fibers and has a serene expression that says she’smade peace with the universe or at least with her boyfriend’s family’s capacity for organized mayhem.
“This is Bree,” Shaka says. “She’s from Oregon originally, teaches yoga, and she’s still figuring out why chickens seem to have more social skills than most humans.”
“The chickens here have definitely mastered the art of networking,” I agree, watching as three hens conduct what appears to be a strategic planning session near the dessert table. “So nice to meet you, too.”
“Jinx!” a familiar voice carries across the compound with the authority of a woman who’s never met a family gathering she couldn’t feed properly. “I brought malasadas!”
I turn to see not one but two familiar faces—and I won’t lie, I’m more than relieved to see them.
Lani appears, carrying a tray of what must be homemade malasadas, because they’re still warm enough to fog her glasses.
Ruby appears beside her with a not-so-innocent expression because she is definitely up to something. “I’m Lani’s plus one tonight,” she announces cheerfully. “I’m helping with the sweet treats.”
Lani averts her eyes. “By helping, she means eating them before anyone else gets a chance.”
Linda nods approvingly. “Any friends of Jinx’s who can make malasadas is welcome at our table.”
“They’re my friends, too,” Koa is quick to offer them both a smile, and there go those dimples again.
The food before us becomes the primary focus of theevening, because Hawaiian family gatherings operate on the principle that love is directly proportional to caloric intake. The roasted pig takes center stage—skin crispy enough to use as percussion instruments, meat falling off the bone with the tenderness that comes from hours of slow cooking and what I suspect might be actual magic.
Linda’s mac salad is criminally delicious, because it tastes better than anything made with mayonnaise has a right to, and when I ask about the secret ingredient, she just smiles and says, “Nebraska stubbornness and Hawaiian patience.”
The poke made with fresh tuna that Keoni caught this morning glitters like edible jewels, chicken long rice swims in fragrant ginger broth, lomi salmon adds pops of bright pink, kalua pork falls apart at the slightest touch, and mountains of steamed white rice anchor the entire spread.
The dessert table is a sight to behold all on its own, with enough sweet treats to stock a bakery. The kulolo in particular catches my eye—dark purple squares of steamed taro and coconut that look deceptively simple, but taste like sweet, dense perfection with hints of caramel—and they look so good they threaten to ruin every other dessert I’ll ever eat.
Koa lands us at a picnic table with his family, and both Lani and Ruby take front row seats before us. At least this way, I won’t have to rehash every last detail over coffee and cinnamon rolls tomorrow. Oh, who am I kidding? We will definitely be rehashing every last detail over coffee and cinnamon rolls come sunrise.
“So, Jinx,” Linda says, settling beside me, and I can tell bythe look on her face she’s about to launch into a friendly interrogation—or at least I hope it’s friendly, “what are your intentions with my youngest son?”
Intentions?Koa wasn’t kidding.
