“I research everything. Knowledge is power, Claire.”
“It’s just beans and rice, not like we’re doing a hostile takeover of a corporation.”
The front door opened before Harper could say anything, and Señora Morales appeared.
She was small. Actually, she was tiny. That was the very first thing Nina noticed.
She was smaller than Elena, which Nina did not even think was possible.
She was maybe five feet tall in the slippers she wore, her silver-streaked black hair pulled back in a braid, and her brown skin shaped by decades of sun and laughter.
She wore a simple apron over a blue cotton dress. Her eyes were dark and warm, the eyes of a woman who could look at you once and tell whether you had even eaten breakfast. Much like Elena.
“You must be Nina.” Her accent was thicker than Elena’s. “Elena told me about you. She said you were ready.”
Nina did not know what Elena had told this woman. Knowing Elena, she had told her everything, down to Nina’s shoe size and astrological sign.
She had definitely told her about the marriage, the death, the grief, the frozen waffles, and the parking lots.
Elena did not believe in privacy when it came to family, and she considered Nina her family for life. That meant Nina’s business was Elena’s business, which was now apparently Señora Morales’ business.
“These are my friends,” Nina said. “Claire and Harper.”
Señora Morales looked at Claire, then at Harper, and then back at Nina.
“They cook?”
“Claire bakes,” Nina said. “I mean, Harper mostly just orders food and people bring it to her.”
“I can cook,” Harper said, obviously feeling under the microscope. This, of course, was said with the confidence of a woman who had only ever made pasta from a box.
Señora Morales smiled. “Come in. We start with the chili.”
The kitchen was very small, but it was immaculate. Most importantly, it was alive. Every surface had something on it.
Molcajetes in three sizes lined up on the counter. Big bundles of dried chilies hanging from hooks near a window. A comal on the stove that was so well seasoned, it was nearly black.
Stacks of big clay bowls in colors that reminded Nina of the pottery David used to buy whenever they visited his cousins in Oaxaca.
A radio on the windowsill played something soft and acoustic, barely audible amid the sound of Señora Morales moving around her kitchen.
There were four stations set up along a long wooden table that served as a workspace and a dining surface. Cutting boards, bowls of ingredients, knives, and a small stack of index cards with handwritten recipes in Spanish. Señora Morales had translated them into English underneath in very small letters.
“Today we make three things,” she said, tying on an apron like she was preparing for battle. “First, we make salsa de pasilla. Simple. It’s very good for beginners.” She looked at Harper. “Good for people who like to order in.”
“Oh, wow, I feel seen,” Harper said, putting a hand to her chest.
“Secondly, we make tortillas by hand. We’re not using a machine. Your hands learn the masa, or the tortilla is just bread.”
“And what’s the third thing?” Claire asked, studying the index cards.
Señora Morales looked at Nina. “Mole negro.”
The kitchen went silent.
It wasn’t because anyone understood the weight of the words, but because Nina did, and they could see the look on her face.
Mole negro was David’s favorite dish.
