“What time are you meeting Elijah’s mom?” Gabriella asked as she flattened the dough to make homemade tortillas. She’d gotten up before me to mix and let it rise.
“Late afternoon,” I replied, taking a sip of hot green tea to get myself going for the day.
“You sure you don’t want me to ride with you? It’ll be dark on your way back. And everybody I know over the age of fifty is not down with driving at night.”
I knew she was only trying to lighten the mood with one of her senior jokes, but it didn’t work. “No. I don’t want you to see me crying all the way there and back.” My voice faltered at the thought of saying goodbye to Elijah, especially knowing he didn’t want to leave.
Gabriella glanced over at me, her face full of empathy. “I’mreally going to miss him, Joyce,” she said quietly. “And I hate that it’s all because of my culinary drama.”
“Hey, now,” I interjected, “don’t you feel bad about that. This kitchen repair needed to happen no matter what. It’s just life, and sometimes we have to adjust.” But even as I attempted to reassure her, I couldn’t shake my own sadness over Elijah’s departure.
“Life be lifin’,” Gabriella mused.
“So true.”
Gabriella tested the grease with a drop of water. Satisfied with its sizzle, she said, “All right. Let’s make these breakfast tortillas, Abuela’s way.”
“Sounds perfect,” I agreed, pushing aside my worries and focusing on the task at hand.
Gabriella began by chopping up a medley of colorful veggies—red bell peppers, green onions, and tomatoes—while I whisked together eggs and a little milk in a bowl, as she instructed. The sizzle of butter melting in the skillet filled the kitchen with an inviting aroma that nipped at the gloominess we had been feeling. The knife chop-chop-chopping against the cutting board added a comforting cadence to the room, a soothing melody.
“Next, we’ll add some spices,” she said, handing me a small glass jar filled with a vibrant blend of cumin, chili powder, and smoked paprika. I sprinkled it over the vegetables as they cooked, watching as the spices released their rich, earthy scents into the air. They added depth to the complexity of the smells.
As the vegetables softened and became infused with the spices, Gabriella retrieved a package of smoked sausage from the refrigerator. We worked together to slice it into thin, even pieces. Each slice added to the skillet brought a new layer of savoriness, the smokiness of the sausage complementing the spices perfectly. Thesound of the sausage sizzling and the sight of it browning amid the colorful vegetables was a sensory delight.
“Is this your family’s special seasoning?” I asked, taking in the fragrant mixture.
“Yep, my abuela used a dash of it in almost every meal,” Gabriella replied with a wistful smile. “It reminds me of home.”
She suddenly grew quiet, her eyes distant as she stirred the contents of the skillet. “Joyce, can I tell you something? Promise not to judge?”
“Of course.”
“My mom’s side of the family came here from Mexico,” she began hesitantly. “My grandfather crossed the border, looking for a better life. There was no work, no food to feed his family.”
“Mmmm,” I said softly.
She looked at me. “The other day, when we found the recipes for Black travelers, I thought about how amazing it is that both my Black ancestors travelingacrossthis country and my Mexican ancestors escapingtothis country had both packed specific foods for the journey.”
Now it was my turn to be intrigued. “You don’t say?”
“Yeah. I mean, I know it’s, like, a hot political topic these days, but back when my grandfather came to America—across land and a river—he says they packed salty nuts and seeds. Canned foods. Water. And garlic and tobacco, to ward off snakes. He also wrote his name on his underwear, just in case he died of heatstroke or drowning.”
“I can’t imagine,” I said.
“He got here and started working, took the classes, and became a citizen,” she said. “He kept that underwear, though.”
“You’ve got quite a few stories to share, Gabriella.”
“This is why I love cooking. So much history.”
“Your family’s journey is a testament to the strength and resilience in your blood,” I told her. “On both sides. You’ve got some kind of resilience in you. And that’s why we gotta kick Mrs. Maine’s behind next time!”
Gabriella’s full mane trembled with her laughter.
“Yes! Crush Mrs. Maine!”
And in that small kitchen, with the smell of warm spices and freshly cooked tortillas wafting around us, we found solace in each other’s company—a bond that I hoped would endure long after the last bite of breakfast had been savored.
