It’s exquisite. Carlos’s additions have done what the salmon always had to, upping the robustness of the flavor. But there’s something else. A fruity pucker that sears my tongue yet leaves me wishing for more.
“What did you do to this?” I round on Carlos. “What was in that—what did you call it? Dressing?”
His eyes widen, afraid I’m about to bludgeon him like I did Dominick. “Canola oil and apple cider vinegar?”
“Vinegar.” I slap a hand on the table. “That’s what it is!”
“Don’t take too long, guys.” Sid’s voice echoes in the kitchen as the last four come in from the field to grab a bowl.
“Your wife made weed salad,” says James, turning to him with a grin. “Isn’t that nice?”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“Sid!” I call, a new hope seizing me. “Can I take cooking lessons from Carlos? Please?”
“We need Carlos for harvest,” says Sid. “Plus, he’s at school half the time.”
“Damn it.” I want to know Carlos’s tricks. Food is life. It’s always been my guiding drive, and unlike everything else on this island, I can understand why this is valuable. Food that only existed in books seems possible now. Vinegar. Cakes, even!
“I mean… it would be good to have someone other than me who knows how to cook on the farm, right? And I still have to make dinner every night. You could follow me around while I do it.” Carlos blushes so deeply it shows even on his dark skin. “If you want.”
“Yes! Yes, I would like that.”
“And I wouldn’t mind if you showed me what else youused to eat in the woods. In case we’re missing things,” he adds. “Like, I never know what mushrooms are safe.”
“I can totally do that!”
“But so you know, I’m notthatgood.”
“Carlos, you’re a god for all I know. Thank you!” I wrap my arms around him. The poor kid looks like he’s seconds away from bursting into flames.
All day, I shake with excitement, anxious for them to finish work so I can pester Carlos with questions. While I wait, I open drawers and cupboards over and over, taking stock of all the ingredients we might use tonight. It’s strange to think that such a young boy knows things I don’t, but I guess that’s the advantage of growing up here, rather than out in the wilds.
Eventually, April tells me that I’mruining the vibefor her, so she heads upstairs to the empty apartment.
“At least there won’t be any distractions,” she says dolefully.
When Carlos finally finishes work for the day, he comes bearing eggs recently collected from the farm hens.
“We’re having huevos rancheros,” he says, setting the basket on the counter. “Well. White people huevos rancheros.”
“But you aren’t white though, are you?”
“No, but a white lady taught me how to cook.” He shrugs. “We do the best we can with what we’ve got.”
We start by crushing chilis and garlic together, and rendering pig fat so we can fry everything once the chili sauce is ready. From one of the cupboards, he pulls out a pot of beans left to soak overnight and gets them on to boil, so we can have them on the side. That will help make what traditionally used to be a breakfast meal more filling and dinner appropriate. And tomatoes! He pulls a jar of canned tomatoes out of the cupboard and adds them to the sauce.
“Do they have jobs where you do this all day? Just cook for people?” I ask.
“Sure. There are a couple of restaurants in town. It’s hard to get those jobs, though.” He cracks the eggs carefully into the pan, so not a single yolk breaks. “The woman who hosted me when I first came here ran a café. She taught me all this shit.”
That explains why the others defer to him in the kitchen. I remember Sid saying the group was split up when they sought sanctuary, but I hadn’t thought about how that would shape them all into different people.
“How old were you when you came over?”
“I was five.”
“Wow! That’s pretty young. Why didn’t you stay with your sanctuary host?” Working in a café, cooking food all day sounds amazing to me.
