With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Last Day
Even though it’s our last full day in Spain and a Saturday, Chef Ayden still has us report to our apprenticeships. I’m working on a marinade for the pork shoulder that Chef Amadí will be serving for dinner tomorrow night. The recipe calls for it to sit in the marinade for a full twenty-four hours, and a part of me wishes I was going to be here one more day so I could try it. But maybe that’s the point of a trip like this: you start the process of learning and then you carry it with you back home.
I massage the spice mixture into the pork, pressing firmly.
“Make sure you get a dry rub on the meat, too. And did you add lemon to that mix?”
“I used sour oranges instead,” I say.
“That’s good, the sour oranges. Make sure to score the shoulder. Small, shallow cuts to capture all that flavor. I think you’ve learned here, no?”
I nod and pick up the knife. And I have learned a lot. “Yes, and not just from being in this kitchen.” I have learned to cook with confidence, but also to remember the guests have expectations of what I’ll serve them. I’ve learned to trust my hands. But I’ve learned about more than just food. I’ve learned about people. From seeing how people from somewhere else walk, and laugh, and love, and eat.
“You have good instincts. You will make a fine chef one day. Maybe when you finish school, you’d like to come back to Spain? I would love to take you on as my apprentice.”
I look up quickly and forget what I’m doing. My hand slips and I cut it where I’ve been holding the pork in place. I drop the knife and quickly back away. “Shit.” I check to see if I got any blood on the meat, but Chef Amadí puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes me toward the sink, where she runs water over my hand.
“Oh, here.” Chef Amadí wraps a clean towel around my hand. “Keep that water running. Let me see if any got on the food or cutting board. We have Band-Aids and gloves in that cabinet above your head. Only a couple more hours and you would have gone through the trip unscathed. But now you have a war scar to prove you were here.”
The small cut stings, but nothing like the tears in my eyes. Being able to stay here, to work in a real kitchen after school and learn more would be a dream. But even as I think it I know I would never want to leave my daughter, or my ’Buela, or the city I love.
“Emoni, it was so wonderful working with you. Anytime you are in Spain you come back here. And if you ever want to talk about working here, I have use for a chef with hands like yours. Oh, and here.” Chef Amadí hands me a letter. “This is my official academic evaluation of your work for Chef Ayden. Don’t read it. Unless you want to.” She smiles at me and hands me a container of tea. “And these are tea bags I put together from my own garden. You can make tea or add it to a recipe. I’m sure you’ll figure out how to use it.”
I hold the bag up to my nose. Lavender, ginger, chamomile . . . “There’s something in here I can’t place,” I say to her.
“Ah, and that’s why it is magic. Not all recipes in life are easily understood or followed or deconstructed. Sometimes you have to take what is given to you and use your talents to brew the best tea possible. Yes?” She wraps me in her arms before I can answer and then she’s shooing me out the door.
I take off my smock and chef’s hat and fold them neatly, handing them over.
“The pork shoulder will be wonderful. I can’t wait to try your marinade. Be good and safe, and oh, Emoni, trust. Okay? Trust. Yourself, mainly, but the world, too. There is magic working in your favor.”
She closes the door before I can say anything else.
And for a second I feel naked, like I’m unhidden in the light of the evening sun, a person different from who I was a moment ago.