7
GABRIELA
The smell of strong coffee and singed tortillas teased me awake.
My dad could afford to have his bellinis flown in from Venice for brunch at this stage of his career, but no. He preferred to rise at dawn, make coffee in an old fashioned percolator and burn his corn tortillas to a crisp on a stovetop comal made just for that purpose, and have both with a serving of mamá’s magical beans.
No one could make them like her.
Mouth watering, I rose and strode to the kitchen in my pajamas.
We won.
A knowing grin on my lips, I felt taller than I’d ever been in my life.
“Morning, mija.”
“Buenas…” in our house we sprinkled our speech with Spanish, just enough to add flavor and spice. Like the single clove of garlic mama used to season the beans. Just enough so you knew it was there
