Hungry Woman in Paris (31 page)

Rosemary looked pregnant in her wedding dress; either that or she’d gotten a boob job. When I had a chance to talk to her
privately in the ladies’ restroom she revealed to me that she was four months pregnant and happy about it. She was so in love
and happy that I was able to share this precious day with her. Rosemary got all teary-eyed when she started thinking about
her mother not being there. She quickly changed the subject and said she couldn’t wait for me to find my true love and get
married. At the reception I forced myself to make small talk with the other guests and had to explain why I was alone and
no, nobody would be coming later to join me. I debated whether I should sneak out early or stay until the cutting of the cake.
I loved her reception and wondered if I could see myself in a wedding dress or making dinner for someone. It felt good knowing
that I could cook, but I never had to. I bet Henry would never expect me to make dinner or clean up. Yes, but Henry would
never be the kind of guy who would propose or promise love for a lifetime; he could never lie like that. But I will never
know now what a life with him would have been like.

Rosie came into my room and asked me what I was planning to do for my thirtieth birthday party. My birthday was before Christmas
and my family usually combined the two; yeah, I would get cheated on the presents. I told her I honestly didn’t know what
to do. She walked past my suitcase and saw a giant cardboard envelope and asked me what it was. I told her it was nothing
and attempted to hide it. Rosie knew me well enough to know it was important because I got nervous talking about it. She insisted
that I show it to her, so I figured, what the hell, and showed her my giant diploma. She didn’t understand why I had a diploma
for cooking when I’d been studying journalism. I told her the truth and she practically laughed. See, that’s why I did it.
Rosie stared at the diploma and smiled.

“Wow, so are you going to cook for me?” she asked, savoring the imaginary French food I would make for her. I made a note
to myself not to mention cooking school ever again to anyone.

“Why don’t you make a dinner party for your birthday?” Rosie suggested. I considered her suggestion and almost dismissed the
idea until Rosie added, “Maybe I can invite all the family to dinner and then surprise them with you coming out of the kitchen.
Do you have a chef’s hat?” Rosie always had her heart in the right place, but I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. But,
after much urging from Rosie, I agreed to try.

I went shopping and bought all the ingredients. I wasn’t thrilled about doing all the work for my birthday party, but this
would be a nice way to be welcomed back. Plus, I could live out my cooking fantasy, which would be a nice present. I debated
whether to make fish or meat. Should I make the monkfish wrapped in bacon or the
saumon farcie en feuille de chou vert
or the
truite farcie aux morilles?
Or should I make my
agneau à la Mexicaine-Américaine
and finally get it right? What kind of dessert? Should I attempt to make a chocolate soufflé with Chantilly cream or something
really fancy with caramel decorations? When I was paying for the groceries I picked up the newspaper and read an article about
a proposed wall along the border between Mexico and the United States being approved by Congress. I asked Rosie about it and
she told me, “They’re even proposing to make it a crime if anyone assists an undocumented person. Something called the HR
no se que cochinada something. It sounds like hemorrhoid medicine.”

Rosie made her husband set up the table all fancy and forced him to use the fine china that was typically just for decoration.
When the family arrived they were impressed by the table settings and asked who was cooking and why the early celebration;
Christmas was still days away. Rosie said that she had hired a professional chef and forbid anyone from going into her kitchen.
I ran around like a madwoman getting the veal ready. Finally I was satisfied with my dish; it was done as it was meant to
be prepared and presented. Rosie ran into the kitchen to check on me and asked me if I was ready. I put the chocolate soufflé
into the oven and I put on my chef hat and fixed my tie. I grabbed the veal and walked out of her kitchen holding the platter.
It took a few seconds for everyone at the table to notice that it was me under the chef’s hat. Collectively my whole family
said, “Canela, is that you?” I announced my dish and began serving. When I got to the end of the table I almost dropped the
platter when I discovered that Armando was one of my guests.

“Armando? What are you doing here?” I blurted out tactlessly.

“Your mother invited me.”

“He’s practically a part of the family,” my mother interjected. She stared at me defiantly, her eyes gleaming with pride that
she had outsmarted me. I gave her a dirty look and went back into the kitchen, Rosie following at my heels.

“Did you tell mama about this?” I snapped at her.

“No! But…” Rosie hesitated. “I think my husband might have accidentally let it slip out.” I went to the sink and stared
at the dirty dishes. I was so annoyed at my mother for what she’d done, but I also knew that it was not fair to Armando to
embarrass him or make him feel unwelcome.

I gritted my teeth and took the platters with the tomato confit and the bell pepper
tian
into the dinning room. I finished serving my guests and said,
“Bon appétit.”
My family began to eat. My mother took a bite and stared at me, incredulous. “You made this?” I nodded. I stared at everyone
as they ate my food and wanted to cry. Not because I was angry about Armando or afraid of what my family thought, but because
I was relieved to be back home and to see all my siblings and my parents. Being away for nine months had helped me remember
I loved them.

“It’s delicious,” my mother said approvingly. “Don’t you think so, Armando?” He smiled at me and agreed with her. After several
bites I was showered with compliments and questions about my life in Paris. I tried to give as little information as possible
without making it obvious that I was trying to be vague.

“I went to cooking school,” I said, and no one laughed.

“Wait, didn’t you tell Rosie you were studying journalism?” my sister Reina interjected.

“I did… I wanted it to be a surprise,” I told them, and they all thought that was sweet. “Excuse me, I have to finish
dessert,” I said and went into the kitchen. I finally understood what that female chef named Babette felt after she made her
fabulous feast for those sexually repressed Danes. I felt like an artist. Like in some small way I had contributed to enriching
my family’s life. I danced around victoriously and stopped the second Rosie walked back in. She hugged me and said, “You did
it! Happy birthday.” I took the chocolate soufflé out of the oven and it looked like a beautiful hot-air balloon. I felt so
proud of myself. All this and my soufflé had risen to great heights, looking perfect—there is a God! I took the soufflé to
the table and everyone looked at it. Reina’s husband didn’t know what the black thing was and I educated everyone on the fine
art of making soufflés. My father finally spoke up. He commented that maybe now that I knew how to cook and was a “hot commodity”
I could be a real woman and settle down. The table fell silent. Everyone was waiting for me to explode, to scream and yell
so they could roll their eyes and share “you know how Canela is” smirks. And it’s true, I wanted to tell him the thirty reasons
his comment was sexist, but I forced a smile and let his sexist comment slide; I wasn’t going to let him ruin my fantasy.
I had accepted that machos don’t evolve and that you can’t teach an old macho a new trick.

I sliced the soufflé as best I could and handed the pieces out before the soufflé was reduced to a flattened ball. I added
the Chantilly cream and powdered sugar to the slices. I handed my mother a big piece and put tons of cream on it. It was so
rich and delicious I salivated just serving it to her. One of my sisters asked me if I got to eat frogs and snails.

“Escargot,
as they call snails, and
grenouille,
as they call frogs, don’t taste bad. Drown them in butter and they taste like chicken.” Reina asked me what I thought about
the French—were they really snobs like everyone says they are? I tried to be diplomatic, but I couldn’t lie either.

“They are so arrogant; who do they think they are?” Reina said loudly. I didn’t want to generalize, so I explained how I had
heard people in the south and in the country were so much nicer than the Parisians. “I’m glad I went, but I wouldn’t want
to live there again,” I confided. “But at least they stood up against the war in Iraq,” I said on France’s behalf, forgetting
that my sister was a Republican.

“Yeah, that’s because they had an arms contract with Saddam—” Reina interjected. I was about to argue with her when my mother
tipped over the pitcher of water. Everyone stared at her, but she continued searching for the water with her hands, like a
blind woman.

Armando reached over to her and my mother passed out. Quickly gathering her into his arms, Armando carried her to his car
and we rushed her to the emergency room.

Y
our mother has lost her sight. Her diabetes—” explained the doctor before I cut him off.

“She has diabetes?” I asked.

“She’s had it for a long time. It has to be severe for her to lose her sight,” the doctor told all of us.

“Are you sure she’s blind? Maybe it’s temporary?” my father asked, almost angry at the doctor for delivering the bad news.

“No. It’s permanent.”

My brothers and sisters started crying. My father just got up and left. We figured he needed time to process it by himself,
so no one chased after him. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so angry no one had told me she was a diabetic. I felt so angry
with myself for not speaking to her for almost a year. Talk about guilt; I felt terrible serving her a chocolate soufflé!
I’d never felt like a bad daughter until that moment. Armando handed me a tissue for my tears, but I buried myself in his
chest. He hugged me and I smelled his beautiful scent. He was such a good guy; why had I left him? The hours passed and my
brothers and sisters said good-bye because they had to get up early for work. I had no place to go so I stayed until visiting
hours were over. I kissed my mother on her forehead as she slept.

Armando offered to give me a ride back to Rosie’s place or continue talking to me if I needed to talk. Aside from his long
hours as a doctor and his annoying mother, Armando was a catch, but by now he was sure to have a girlfriend. Probably a nurse
who was always by his side. I sat in his Mercedes crying and he invited me over to his apartment and offered to make me a
root beer float or an ice cream cone. I was so touched by his gesture, but I warned him that I might need to cry the whole
night.

His apartment had not changed much since I’d broken off the engagement. I carefully surveyed the living room, waiting to find
a photo of his new girlfriend. I even excused myself so I could go to the bathroom and inspect his medicine cabinet for signs
of a new woman. I closed the mirror and caught myself snooping. So what if he has a girlfriend, I don’t care, I told myself.
None of my business, I scolded myself.

Armando made me a bowl of ice cream with whipped cream on top and I felt so joyous to be with him again. Maybe my mother was
right; maybe he was too good to pass up.

“So how are you?” I asked.

“Busy as usual. More responsibilities, but happy overall.”

I took this to mean that he was happy about our breakup. I looked at my watch and saw it was two in the morning.

“I better go back to Rosie’s place; I don’t want to get there much later because her door is squeaky.”

“Why don’t you stay here?” he suggested.

“Armando, I don’t deserve your kindness. I know you want to be supportive, but I did not treat you right.”

“Neither did I. I should have defended you better. My mother should not have interfered, but I allowed her.”

I cried, realizing how much I’d missed him, and we embraced until we could both hear each other’s hearts beating at the same
time.

“How is your mother?” I asked, trying to be nice.

“She nags me about having kids and sets me up on bad blind dates that I have to cancel. She’s all right.”

“So none of the blind dates worked out?”

“No. I am not interested in anyone else but you.”

“So this last nine months you didn’t date and you waited for me?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I went out with some women for a few weeks here and there, but they were more interested in marrying
a doctor than actually getting to know me… Canela, I know you, so don’t tell me what you did in Paris. I don’t need to
know.”

“Aren’t you at all curious about my life in Paris?” I teased him.

“Only if it doesn’t include men,” he said.

He made his bed on the couch and told me to take his bed. I insisted that he let me sleep on the sofa and pretty soon a pillow
fight ensued that led to both of us in the same bed, making wild and passionate makeup sex. If only wars could be resolved
the same way.