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“You don’t look… prego,” says Memo.
Abuela throws her hands in the air. “Pero ya tememos el pastel.”
Memo shakes his head and pretends to go back to sleep.
“Sorry, Abuela,” I say. “No wedding today.”
She gives me the silent treatment for the next hour.
I decide to stay awake and cook breakfast for the family. Those sweets aren’t sitting right in my stomach and I need some protein.
With a family this size, it’s easier to make a skillet meal than make individual eggs thirteen different ways. So I’m whisking the eggs while the tortillas and onions are in the pan getting crispy. Tomatoes are chopped and ready to go in any second, now. Olive slides up next to me, watching the process.
“What are you making?”
“Sopitas con huevos,” I say, stealing a kiss on the nose. “It’s the perfect hangover breakfast.”
The only one hungover is Abuelo, and he’s sleeping, but I think a sugar hangover counts.
“It smells scrummy. Can you show me how to make it?”
“All right. Finish whisking the eggs while I sautée the tomatoes.” I pass the stainless steel mixing bowl to her and toss the tomatoes in the pan with the tortillas and onions,
letting them soften. After a minute, I stand aside so she can add the eggs to the pan.
“Okay, now pour the eggs over everything else. We want to coat the tortillas. Sort of like a Mexican French toast.”
She pours the mixture in the pan while I stir.
“Ooooh. This is like matzo brei.”
“Isn't matzo a cracker?”
“Yeah, it's so good.”
“So I'm guessing the cracker replaces the tortilla.”
“Yup. But there's no tomato. And no onions. Oh and it's great with applesauce.”
“So in other words, nothing like sopitas con huevos?
“The egg is the same,” she reasons. “It’s really best cooked in schmaltz.”
“Do I dare ask?”
“Rendered chicken fat.”
“Good to know so I can never use it,” I say.
It’s so domestic—working side by side in the kitchen. Going through the motions of making breakfast with Olive is causing strange flip flops in my chest. I want this. I want this every single day.
I glance over my shoulder to see if anyone is looking. Through the opening to the living room, all I can see is half of Mateo, and he’s snoring on the couch.
I pluck the bowl out of Olive's hands and toss it into the sink with a clank. I hope the noise doesn’t alert anyone, because in two seconds flat, my hands are on Olive’s hips and I’m backing her into the counter.
“You’re so hot when you cook,” I rumble against her mouth. My arms skate around her waist and I crush her into me, claiming her mouth with a greedy kiss. I take her lips hungrily, this insatiable need clawing at my core. I kiss her thoroughly and abundantly, giving her my heart and soul while selfishly stealing her sweet kisses like a thief.
Her body is so soft and pliant against my chest. It’s driving me insane.
