Salsa Stories (5 page)

When
I was growing up in Puerto Rico, I went to a small, Catholic girls' school. Every December, Sister Antonia, our religion teacher, insisted that the sixth grade visit the nursing home in Santurce. Bringing Christmas cheer to the old and infirm was an experience she felt all sixth graders should have. But the year I was in fifth grade, Sister Antonia decided our class was mature enough to join the older girls and have that experience, too.

“I'm not going,” I whispered to my friend Margarita.

“You have to, Marilia,” she said. “Everyone has to go.”

All of my classmates looked forward to the trip. Some, because they liked the rackety bus ride to anywhere. Some, because they could skip school for the day and that meant no homework. And others, because they believed that to do a sixth-grade activity in fifth grade was very special. But ever since my only grandma died in a nursing home, the thought of going back to one made me feel sad. I didn't want to go.

As I sat at my desk coloring the Christmas card that I was assigned to make for a resident, I tried to figure out how I could skip this field trip. Maybe they would let me help at the library. Maybe I could write a special book report at school while they were out. Or better yet, I could wake up ill and stay home from school. As soon as the recess bell rang, I ran over to the library to try out my first plan.

“
Hola
, Marilia,” Señora Collazo greeted me.

“
Hola
, Señora Collazo,” I said, smiling sweetly. “I came to ask you if I could stay here tomorrow to help you paint posters for the book fair. I really don't mind spending the whole day at the library.”

“Aren't you going on a field trip tomorrow?” Señora Collazo asked.

“My class is going. But I could be excused if you need my help.” The librarian thanked me and said that if I wanted to help I could join the other students who had already volunteered to stay after school to do the posters. Biting my lower lip, I left the library in a hurry. It was time to try my second plan.

Outside, seated on the polished tiles of the covered corridor, my friends were having a tournament of jacks. But I didn't join them. Instead, I marched right to the sixth-grade classroom. Sister Antonia was grading papers at her desk as I went in.

“Sister Antonia,” I said softly.

“Yes, Marilia,” Sister Antonia answered.

I stared for a moment at the buckles of my shoes. Then without looking up, I took a deep breath, swept back my black curls, and asked, “May I stay in school tomorrow to do an extra book report?”

“I'm afraid not, Marilia,” Sister Antonia said firmly. “Tomorrow is our trip to the nursing home. Both the fifth and sixth grades are going. But if you want to do an extra book report, you can do it over the weekend.”

I glanced across the room to the trays of
besitos de coco
, the coconut sweets that the sixth graders had prepared to bring to the nursing-home residents as an
aguinaldo
.
Aguinaldos
, surprise Christmas gifts, were fun to receive. But still, I wasn't going, so it wasn't my concern. I whispered thank you to the sister, and left.

 

That evening at dinnertime, I put my third plan into action. To my parents' surprise, I had two big helpings of rice and kidney beans, two helpings of Mami's
tembleque
for dessert, and three glasses of mango juice. I
never
ate so much. I figured that with all this food, I was sure to get indigestion. I went to bed and waited. I tossed and turned. I waited for several hours expecting a stomachache any second, but instead, the heavy meal made me tired and I fell sound asleep.

“Marilia, get dressed!” Mami called early the next morning. “We have to leave soon for school.”

How unlucky. I woke up feeling quite well. There was only one thing left to do, I ran to the bathroom, let the hot water run, and drank a full glass of it. Then I went back to bed.

“Marilia.” Mami came in. “Get up! What is going on with you?”

“I feel warm, Mami,” I mumbled.

Mami looked at me with concern. She touched my forehead and my neck. Then she left the room and in a few minutes came back with the thermometer in her hands. I opened my mouth and she slipped it under my tongue.

When the time was up, Mami pulled the thermometer out and read it.

“One hundred and six degrees?” she exclaimed. “That's impossible. You look perfectly fine to me.”

After a little questioning, I confessed what I had done. I told Mami how much I didn't want to go on the field trip.

“You know, Marilia,” she advised, “you might enjoy yourself after all. Besides, I've already promised Sister Antonia two trays of
tembleque
to bring as an
aguinaldo
to the residents of the home.”

There was no way out. I had to go.

 

In the big lobby of the nursing home, paper streamers hung from the tall windows. The residents were scattered everywhere. Some were seated on the couches. Some were in wheelchairs. Some walked clutching on to their walkers. A nurse hovered over a group of men as she dispensed pills. Sister Antonia took out her guitar and at the sound of the first bar we began to sing a medley of carols. Several of the girls accompanied with
maracas
,
güiro
, and
palitos
. Meanwhile, the residents clapped and sang along while a sixth grader passed around our cards for us to give to them later. As I watched how happy our music made the residents, memories of my grandma rushed to me, making me dizzy with sadness. Suddenly, I saw that everybody was visiting with the residents. I was alone. I didn't feel like joining one of the groups. Maybe I could quietly slip away until the visit was over. I hoped it would be soon. Then I noticed a chair against the yellow wall. I sat there still holding the card I had made.

Across the room there was a frail old lady in a wheel-chair. She was alone, too. I looked at my card again. It was rather pretty. I had painted it with shades of blue and gold. Maybe I could just hand it to her and leave. It might brighten her day. So gingerly, I crossed the lobby and stood next to her.

“Who is there?” the old lady asked as she coquettishly fixed her silver bun with the light touch of her manicured hand.

“My name is Marilia,” I said. “I brought you a card.”

“Dios te bendiga,”
the old woman said. “God bless you.”

She reached for the card but her hand was nowhere near it. Her gaze was lost in the distance, and I knelt down to place the card in her hand. It was then that I saw the big clouds in her eyes. She was blind.
What was the use of a card if you couldn't see it?
I felt cheated. I stood up to go back to my chair.

“My name is Elenita,” she said as I tried to slip away. “Tell me, Marilia, what does your card look like?”

I knelt down beside her and, in as vivid detail as I could, described the three wise men I had drawn. Then, Elenita's curious fingers caressed every inch of the card. She couldn't have enjoyed it more if she had seen it.

When the coconut sweets were passed around, she mischievously asked for two.

“I bet you are not supposed to eat one of these,” she giggled.

“No,” I replied. “Sister Antonia told us that the sweets were just for residents.”

“Well,” she whispered. “Nobody said I couldn't give you one of
mine
.”

I liked Elenita. I placed the
besito de coco
in my mouth and relished it even more. Especially since I wasn't supposed to have it. I enjoyed being her partner in mischief. After that, she asked me if I liked music and if I knew how to dance.

“Ay,”
I said, “I love to listen to music and dance.”

Then she told me how, when she was young, she had been a great dancer.

“I used to dance so well that men would line up for a chance to dance with me. I had many, many suitors at one time,” she said. “I had suitors that serenaded me in the evening and others that brought me flowers. But I didn't go out with all of them. You have to be selective, you know.”

Too soon we were interrupted by Sister Antonia. It was time to get on the bus and return to school. I didn't want to leave.

“Thank you for the card, Marilia,” Elenita said. She opened her hand and gestured for me to give her mine. “I'll keep this card to remember you by.”

“I'm sorry you can't see it,” I said as I squeezed her hand. For a moment it felt as warm and giving as my own grandma's. “I wished I had brought you a better
aguinaldo
.”

“The best
aguinaldo
,” Elenita said, “was your visit, Marilia.”

As I left, I felt light and warm and peaceful. On the bus ride back, I told my friend Margarita all about our visit. I couldn't wait to come back next year when I was in the sixth grade. I already knew what I would bring Elenita. I would make her a collage. That way she would be able to feel the many textures of my picture, even if she couldn't see it. And maybe I could make the picture of her dancing. I knew she had been very pretty when she was young.

“Are you going to wait until next Christmas to give her your collage?” Margarita asked.

I thought for a moment. “Maybe Mami could bring me back sooner,” I said.

As I looked out the window, I remembered how good Elenita's hand felt to touch. It's funny how sometimes things change unexpectedly. Just that morning I didn't want to go at all. But then, I couldn't wait to visit my new friend again. We had gone to the nursing home to give
aguinaldos
. And what a very special
aguinaldo
I had been given — Elenita's friendship.

“¡Bueno!”
cheers Abuelito from the head of the table after the last story had been told. “Wonderful stories, all of them!”

“
¡Sí!
Oh, yes!” a chorus of voices answer Abuelito from around the room. “Wonderful stories.”

Abuelito looks pleased. “Now tell us, Carmen Teresa, which of the stories will you write down first?”

I am about to answer, but everyone answers for me.

“She will record the stories in the order she heard them,” Mamá says. “It's the only fair way.”

“No, no,”
says Abuelita. “There are too many. She should write only the ones she likes best.”

“I saw Carmen Teresa laughing while I told my story,” Abita confides in Abuelita. “I'll bet she will choose mine.” Abuelita nods in agreement.

Uncle Robert thinks I should write down everything I can remember. Tía Marilia generously offers to write hers. “It will make it easier for you,” she assures me.

Suddenly, Flor appears from the kitchen with another tray of
natilla
and
flan de coco
. After everyone has
taken seconds, she whispers to me that her story doesn't have to be included if there isn't room. But I can tell that she hopes there is.

“Carmen Teresa!” my sister Laura calls from across the table. She has already finished Alex's and her
natilla
and licks her spoon clean before she reaches for a third helping. But Mamá stops her.

“After you write those stories down in your book,” Laura says sweetly, “I'll draw pictures to go along with them.”

“Now, there is a fine idea!” says Abuelo Jaime. “You two can work on the book together.”

By now, everyone has told me what they think I should do with my gift. Most of the children are no longer interested in the discussion and flee to the basement to play. Just as I am about to join the kids downstairs, Abuelito's deep voice stops me.

“Carmen Teresa!” he commands. “Let's get started right away. Sit next to me and we'll write my story together. Laura, you can start drawing the pictures.”

“No.” My voice comes out louder than I intend it to.

Instantly, the room becomes silent.

“Carmen Teresa!” Mamá scolds.

“Why don't we let Carmen Teresa decide for herself what she wants to do with her gift,” Doña Josefa suggests. “After all, the present was meant for her.”

Everyone eagerly waits for me to speak. I know exactly what I want to do. I hug the blank book, and look at each one of the relatives and friends around me. Then I begin.

“In all of your stories, you all mentioned some kind of special food. I want to collect the recipes for all the foods you told about in my book. And I will add the recipes for the foods Mamá served here today.”

“That is a delightful idea, Carmen Teresa,” says Doña Josefa.

“Yes,” agrees Abuelito, “and Abuelita can finally tell you how to make
tortilla española
.” He laughs as he squeezes Abuelita's hand. “She's taken all these years to learn how to make it just like Mami used to.”

“I could also give you José Manuel's recipe for
surullitos
,” adds Abuelita. “It's as good as his grandmother's.”

“But the best recipe for
alfajores argentinos
,” boasts Abita, “is the one I make.”

As everyone chatters merrily about their recipes, Doña Josefa talks to me alone.

“I'm so pleased you liked my gift, Carmen Teresa,” she says. “Each time you prepare one of these recipes, you will remember the story that was told with it. And each time someone tastes one of these dishes, they, too, might have a story to tell.”

Content that I have finally found a way to make this
present my very own, I borrow Doña Josefa's fountain pen and open my book to the first page. Then, with great flourishes and curls, I write:

 

Carmen Teresa's Book of Fantastic Family Recipes

 

Gently, I blow on the wet ink to dry it, and I close the book. And tomorrow, I will begin collecting my recipes.