in the kitchen—on the right back burner of our old gas stove.
He then poured in fresh water, put the pot back on the stove, and lit the burner. He watched it until the water started boiling.
After exactly two minutes, he turned the burner off, picked up his old guitar, and came and sat beside me. While we waited for a whole hour to pass, Papa taught me some new chords on the guitar, and we listened to Coco, Papa’s yellow canary, singing outside. This hour, he said, cleaned the beans of their wind-making powers, which always made me laugh.
Then Papa rinsed the beans once more.
Now it was time to cook. Papa poured in fresh water, added a sprig of
epazote,
a green plant that awakened the true taste (another bean secret), and lit the fire under the pot.
Once the pot started to simmer and bubble, Papa started bubbling too. The smell was the earth’s incense, he said as he took a deep whiff. He then started his bean dance, continuously prancing up to the bubbling pot, lifting its lid, and peeking inside.
Later, he spooned two beans out of the pot and pressed each between his fingers, testing them. “These are better than any piece of meat or steak.”
Once the beans were perfect, Papa spooned a cup for me and one for him, and we sat quietly at the kitchen table enjoying them, one by little one, using tiny spoons. This was when beans tasted best, we both agreed, when they were whole and still hot from just being cleaned and cooked.
Now the front door slammed and in burst Mama and Lucy. Lucy was sucking noisily on an enormous lollipop, the colors of a rainbow. Mama dumped two big grocery bags on the kitchen table and flipped the radio on.
“Ay!”
She cranked up the radio. “It’s like a funeral parlor in here. You two should go outside and do something,
anything
. How you two can just sit there for hours without saying a single word. . . . And Sofia, you should be more like Berta. We saw her out shopping for stockings. She’s already planning her
quinceañera
.”
“Julia,” the
vals
sung by Javier Solis, started to play. “Ay! That’s our song, viejo!” Mama said as she pulled Papa out of his chair.
Lucy and I stared. I hadn’t realized Papa could dance. He was waltzing Mama around the kitchen, beaming at her. Mama was laughing, her head back, her hair flowing. They looked like teenagers.
When the
vals
ended, Mama planted a big smack on Papa’s lips. This made him turn bright red. He laughed, took Mama’s right hand, and kissed it gently.
“Gracias, mi
amor.
It’s an honor to dance with such a beautiful woman.”
“Girls, that was our wedding song,” Mama said as she emptied the bags. We all started to help. She took out a bottle of cooking oil, a white onion, two serrano chilies, and her big cast-iron skillet.
After she diced the onion and the chilies, she put the skillet on the stove and poured a stream of oil into it. “It’s a complete mystery to me how you two can eat those beans right out of the pot. As far as I’m concerned, they’re not even cooked yet. You need to transform them into refried beans.” Mama tossed the onion and chilies into the hot oil.
Papa and I watched as she scooped cup after cup of beans from the pot, poured them into the sizzling skillet, and mashed them with her big green-handled wire masher. “This is dinner tonight,” she said, and began to make flour tortillas, using the
masa
she’d made early that morning.
Mama left Papa and me in charge of cooking dinner. Papa picked up the pot and showed me that not one of our beans had survived. They were bubbling away in Mama’s skillet. “Next time, Sofia, we’ll be smart and save a secret portion just for us. But we need to be quick, before your mama gets to them.”
I laughed. One of the flour tortillas started blowing up like a giant bullfrog. “Flip it,” Papa said, smiling.
I grabbed the edge, but it was way too hot. Papa reached over my shoulder and flipped it. “Be careful, mi’ja. Try using a
He then poured in fresh water, put the pot back on the stove, and lit the burner. He watched it until the water started boiling.
After exactly two minutes, he turned the burner off, picked up his old guitar, and came and sat beside me. While we waited for a whole hour to pass, Papa taught me some new chords on the guitar, and we listened to Coco, Papa’s yellow canary, singing outside. This hour, he said, cleaned the beans of their wind-making powers, which always made me laugh.
Then Papa rinsed the beans once more.
Now it was time to cook. Papa poured in fresh water, added a sprig of
epazote,
a green plant that awakened the true taste (another bean secret), and lit the fire under the pot.
Once the pot started to simmer and bubble, Papa started bubbling too. The smell was the earth’s incense, he said as he took a deep whiff. He then started his bean dance, continuously prancing up to the bubbling pot, lifting its lid, and peeking inside.
Later, he spooned two beans out of the pot and pressed each between his fingers, testing them. “These are better than any piece of meat or steak.”
Once the beans were perfect, Papa spooned a cup for me and one for him, and we sat quietly at the kitchen table enjoying them, one by little one, using tiny spoons. This was when beans tasted best, we both agreed, when they were whole and still hot from just being cleaned and cooked.
Now the front door slammed and in burst Mama and Lucy. Lucy was sucking noisily on an enormous lollipop, the colors of a rainbow. Mama dumped two big grocery bags on the kitchen table and flipped the radio on.
“Ay!”
She cranked up the radio. “It’s like a funeral parlor in here. You two should go outside and do something,
anything
. How you two can just sit there for hours without saying a single word. . . . And Sofia, you should be more like Berta. We saw her out shopping for stockings. She’s already planning her
quinceañera
.”
“Julia,” the
vals
sung by Javier Solis, started to play. “Ay! That’s our song, viejo!” Mama said as she pulled Papa out of his chair.
Lucy and I stared. I hadn’t realized Papa could dance. He was waltzing Mama around the kitchen, beaming at her. Mama was laughing, her head back, her hair flowing. They looked like teenagers.
When the
vals
ended, Mama planted a big smack on Papa’s lips. This made him turn bright red. He laughed, took Mama’s right hand, and kissed it gently.
“Gracias, mi
amor.
It’s an honor to dance with such a beautiful woman.”
“Girls, that was our wedding song,” Mama said as she emptied the bags. We all started to help. She took out a bottle of cooking oil, a white onion, two serrano chilies, and her big cast-iron skillet.
After she diced the onion and the chilies, she put the skillet on the stove and poured a stream of oil into it. “It’s a complete mystery to me how you two can eat those beans right out of the pot. As far as I’m concerned, they’re not even cooked yet. You need to transform them into refried beans.” Mama tossed the onion and chilies into the hot oil.
Papa and I watched as she scooped cup after cup of beans from the pot, poured them into the sizzling skillet, and mashed them with her big green-handled wire masher. “This is dinner tonight,” she said, and began to make flour tortillas, using the
masa
she’d made early that morning.
Mama left Papa and me in charge of cooking dinner. Papa picked up the pot and showed me that not one of our beans had survived. They were bubbling away in Mama’s skillet. “Next time, Sofia, we’ll be smart and save a secret portion just for us. But we need to be quick, before your mama gets to them.”
I laughed. One of the flour tortillas started blowing up like a giant bullfrog. “Flip it,” Papa said, smiling.
I grabbed the edge, but it was way too hot. Papa reached over my shoulder and flipped it. “Be careful, mi’ja. Try using a
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