The Lost Recipe for Happiness (25 page)

Three assembly lines were formed to create the individual tamales—one for plain husks, slightly reddish masa, and pork filling; one for dark brown husks with duck and cherry; and one for red husks with goat cheese and tomatoes. Elena headed the pork line—her speed and deftness in spreading the masa were better than anyone’s.

“Chef,” said Alan, appearing at the doorway to the upstairs dining room, “there’s somebody here to see you.” He gave her a look she couldn’t quite interpret.

Elena nodded. “I’ll be right there.”

Wiping her hands, she gestured for Tansy to take her place, and went out into the sunny, now very appealing bar area. A girl leaned on the bar, long hair falling in silken tumbles down her back.

“Hey, Portia,” Elena said, surprised. “What’s up?”

“Hi! Um…” She shifted, foot to foot, her hands in tiny back pockets. “Can we…uh…maybe go outside or something?”

“Sure.” She pointed toward the broad wooden porch, the smoking area for the restaurant, which overlooked part of the street and a dense stand of dark-limbed pines. Eyeing the woolen scarf Portia wore over her sweater, she said, “Is it cold?”

“A little.”

“Let me get a coat.” She retrieved it from a hook by the door, and they headed outside, leaning on the banisters of the porch. The air was brisk, warmer where the high-altitude sun crisped the surface, sharper in the shadows, where it carried the promise of snow.

“Might snow tonight,” Portia said, looking at the horizon, where dark gray peaks, only just dusted with snow, poked ragged fingers into the sky. A few clouds gathered.

“It’s time, isn’t it? The slopes open in a month.”

Portia nodded, blue eyes narrowing in expertise. “I’m pretty sure those are snow clouds.”

Everyone had begun to eye the sky, peering hopefully at every cloud that crossed the sharp peaks and rolled over the valley.
Snow,
they said to each other.
Snow,
they hoped to hear on the newscasts.
Snow, snow, snow.
It sounded like an incantation, a word exhaled on gray and crystal breath. Elena had taken to doing it herself.

“What’s up, Portia?”

“Two things, actually. My dad said I can keep my eyes open for a dog—”

“Hooray!”

She grinned. “Yeah. I’m happy. And two—” She took a breath. “We never—um—talked about the party and all that.”

Elena met her eyes. “You mean you getting drunk?”

Portia colored faintly. Nodded.

“Well, I haven’t said anything to anyone. But I’ve been thinking about this a little.” Mainly when she heard the sound of car tires going too fast around the corner by her apartment—kids laughing, reckless, unaware of all that could happen in the single blink of an eye. “If you knew you could get in trouble, why did you drink that night, much less get drunk?”

“I get stressed out around my mom. Like, she’s so hard to be with. I love her and she’s kinda going through a bad time right now, but that’s what we did sometimes, when I was home. Drink a little bit. It was just our secret.”

Working as she had in kitchens for so long, Elena had heard a lot of stories about bad parenting. The industry attracted the abandoned and misfits. Her own mother had abandoned her, she supposed, but it never ceased to shock her how idiotic parents could be.

She didn’t want to go off on Portia, however. “You probably don’t need me to tell you that your mom needs to get a clue, right?”

It startled her. “Yeah. I mean, no. I think she just does it because she was so young when she had me and it’s kind of a high-pressure life and, you know, lots of people are jealous of her? But she doesn’t really have it all that good.”

Elena lifted an eyebrow.

Portia shook her head. “I know. I do.” She met Elena’s eyes. “I shouldn’t make excuses for her. My counselors said that, too. But sometimes I feel like I was born the grownup and she’s the kid.”

“Look,” Elena said. “Your mom is none of my business. But I need to know that
you’ll
be okay. I don’t want you drinking like that anymore. If you never have one, you never have too many, right?”

She blinked. “Oh! I never thought of it like that before, but yeah. Okay.”

“I’ll also keep your secret, and I won’t tell your dad under two conditions.”

She looked so hopeful it almost broke Elena’s heart. “Okay.”

“Number one: you don’t drink anything. Not anything. When you’re in college and you want to revisit the whole thing, that’s fine, but between now and then, not one drop.”

“That’s a long time from now.”

Elena shrugged.

“Okay, I agree for now. What’s the other thing?”

“You have to ski this winter. Do whatever it is that your dad wants you to do with it.”

An exasperated gasp. “Look at my thighs!” she said, and slapped one with the back of her hands. “I bulk up so fast from skiing! It’s just not cool. I look like a freak.”

“Portia! Athletic is not the same as fat.”

“I get that. You just haven’t seen my thighs when I’m training. It’s gross.”

“What if you take your measurements and then if you add more than what—two inches?—you’ll quit. How’s that?”

For a long minute, Portia stood still as a stone, her exquisite face bathed in the strong Aspen sunlight, her blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders. Youth, health, beauty, wealth—all right there. “Okay,” she said at last. “I’ll do it. But I want the tape measure thing. You can be my witness. Maybe you guys will see this is not my imagination.”

Elena grinned. She wanted to give the girl a hug, but settled for sticking out her hand. “I can’t wait to see you on the slopes.”

With a wry grin, Portia shook her hand. “It’s a deal.”

T
RADITIONAL
P
ORK AND
R
ED
C
HILE
T
AMALES

Making tamales is traditionally a family activity. It’s not impossible for one person to make them, but there’s pleasure in the women coming together, grandmothers and aunties and sisters and little girls filling someone’s kitchen to cook in a line. The scent of the meat stewing in its spices and lard, the scent of hairspray and soap from the women’s hair and skin, the sound of laughter and clucking and the radio playing something in the background. Oldies and dance music and folk songs and Elvis. Green and white linoleum floor. This is my grandmother’s recipe. We ate them at Christmas, and sometimes on somebody’s birthday.

Pork shoulder, about 2–3 lbs, with plenty of fat

Olive oil or lard

2 onions, chopped roughly

3–4 cloves garlic

6–7 New Mexico red chile pods, dried, seeds and stems removed

1 cup fresh chicken broth

1 tsp cumin

1 tsp salt

Corn husks

1
³
/
₄
cups masa harina mixed with 1 cup plus 2 T hot water, cooled to room temperature

²
/
₃
cup fresh pork lard 1 tsp chile powder (use Chimayo chiles if you can find them)

²
/
₃
cup fresh chicken broth

PREPARATION OF INGREDIENTS

In a heavy pot, brown the pork roast on all sides in the olive oil or lard, then add the onions and garlic and let them brown a little. Break up the chile pods and put them in a blender with 1 cup of chicken broth and whir it all together. Cook in low oven, 325 degrees, until meat is tender and shreds easily. Taste to correct seasoning. Shred the meat in the sauce and set aside.

While the meat is cooking, put the corn husks in a bowl and pour boiling water over them to cover. Put a heavy plate on top of them, and let stand for at least 1 hour.

Whip
²
/
₃
cup of lard into
¹
/
₂
cup of the chicken broth until blended, then add masa, chile powder, and remaining chicken broth. Whip until fluffy, then cover and put in the fridge until the roast is cooked.

ASSEMBLY

On a counter or table with plenty of space, line up the bowls of husks, masa, and meat. You’ll need a stack of paper towels or dishcloths, and a steamer with a removable metal tray and a lid.

Tear two or three soaked husks into thin strips and set to one side. Spread a towel on the counter and take one husk out of the water. Blot it on both sides and put it down with the pointed end away from you. Scoop out about a solid tablespoon of masa and plop it down in the middle of the husk, then spread it evenly in a rectangle, leaving a quarter inch of space all around. Ladle out a scant tablespoon of the shredded meat and lay it neatly in a line down the middle of the dough, making sure it reaches all the way to the end of masa on both ends.

Taking both sides of the husk as if you’re going to fold it, gently roll the dough around the meat and wrap the husk firmly around itself. Fold the pointed end toward the center and use a strip of torn husk to tie it in place. Leave the other end open, but tie another strip around the top of the tamale to hold the top together.

Repeat until all batter and meat are gone.

Line the steamer with husks and put the tamales on top of the husks with the open end facing up. Cover and steam for about an hour. The husk should come away easily from the dough.

Let stand for a few minutes, then serve.

Tamales freeze beautifully in their husks, and can be individually reheated in the microwave for 2–3 minutes.

Salud!

THIRTY-ONE

O
n a snowy November morning, Ivan scrambled himself some eggs in Patrick’s fussy, all-white kitchen. A CD played on the sleek stereo in the corner, a combination of bright jazz favorites that lent the air a lilting feel, somehow French. Patrick was taking one of his seven-year showers. Ivan never understood what he did in there for so long—how could it take that long to take a shower?—but Patrick just smiled. He liked showering, he said without apology.

And he did always look very clean, Ivan had to admit, chuckling as he put the eggs on a thin china plate and settled with them at the table. The apartment was over a garage, and someone had taken pains with the conversion. The dining area was bathed with light and opened onto a balcony that overlooked the town.

Life was good. Just now, heavy snow drifted down. Ivan thought of it as feather snow, because it reminded him of the feathers that escaped a down coat. The endless, ongoing sound of chairlifts and traffic was muffled. His eggs were delicious. His body was sated. He hadn’t been drinking much, so the slight depression that seemed to follow him around most of the time was lifting. The job was going well. He got along with Elena very well, actually, and although he had resented her at first, the fact that she brought Patrick with her had been one of the luckiest events in his life.

The golden sensation danced around in his chest for long, long moments before Ivan could identify it: happiness. He’d really only known this feeling a few times in his life—when his mother died and he moved in with her sister, his aunt, and he finally had a warm bed every night and food every day. She wasn’t the most affectionate human being on the planet and she already had three kids of her own, but she was good to her orphaned six-year-old nephew. The first time she gave him a bath, she cried and cried and cried, washing the crusted dirt from his spine and the scars all over him. She asked him what his favorite food was, and he told her it was French toast, which he’d only ever had one time, but never forgot. She made him some afterward.

He stayed with her through school, until he landed a scholarship to go to culinary school. There he had known this unbound sense of hope, and he’d won the Beard award.

But it usually went to shit sooner or later. How could he hold on to this now? To Patrick? How could he avoid fucking this one up?

In the wintery weeks of late November and into early December, Julian was like a drugged man, waiting all day for the time when Elena’s phone call came in and he could go to her, flying through the afternoon to kiss her and tangle his hands in her hair and take her clothes off as quickly as he could. They did so many things naked it became a game. Naked Yahtzee. Naked dancing, which he liked a lot. Lots of naked eating. They did not spend the night together, and they didn’t have sex in his house.

To his surprise, his passion for Elena gave him a new tenderness toward his daughter, as well. He was slowly learning how to cook a few things. He and Portia had breakfast together every morning, mostly cereal with strawberries or some yogurt and whole wheat toast. Most evenings, they ate dinner together at the table she’d chosen—a round, solid one made of wood. She nestled it in the breakfast nook with an airy blue and white cloth, and each day, they used different napkins. Julian had found a service that would come in and cook meals in batches, so they could choose home-cooked meals from the freezer, complete with vegetables and breads and everything they needed.

It was surprisingly rewarding and pleasant. They talked about their days, about things they saw on the news. Nothing big. But it gave him a sense of where she was. He learned that she liked English and science and wood shop, of all things. He brought stories about the people in the restaurant, and sly little stories out of Hollywood, insider dish she loved hearing.

A couple of times, Elena joined them, and on those days, she cooked, even though he tried to get her to just sit and enjoy the meal. She waved him away, and brought Portia into the kitchen with her, giving instruction in simple, traditional cooking.

Late at night, or in the mornings after her first stint at the restaurant, he spent time with Elena.

And he was writing, a very dark and very sexy tale of loss and redemption, his screenplay about a thwarted ghost and a woman trying to shake off her losses. It didn’t escape him that he was writing a part for his ex-wife, a fragile, midlife creature who needed to learn to stand on her own two feet, but in his mind it was Elena who moved through the scenes.

Casting had begun. Schedules were being aligned. He hoped to start shooting in early summer, get as much of it done as possible before Portia had to start school again in the fall.

He wrote it at night, when Portia was doing her homework or watching movies—they sat together in the great room before a big crackling fire, or in the family room while she did homework. He found he liked sitting in the same room with her, an iPod in his ears to help him focus, his fingers flying over the keyboard in the low light, the rooms feeling more like a home than any place he’d lived in a very long time.

Now and then, he wondered what he would tell Elena. When he would tell her. Not even that marred his floating sense of well-being. He was sure, when the time came, that he could convince her that he was just doing what storytellers did.

Even the weather was cooperating. Snow started showing up in early November. At first, it would snow one day and melt the next. Then a slow-moving system stuck around for a few days and the slopes were covered with white for the first time. The locals started chortling to each other about old El Niño. It might even, they said to each other, be a season like the winter of 2005–06, when the snow bases had climbed to over a hundred inches in some places.

One night, sitting with a pencil between his teeth, watching his daughter hunch over the coffee table where she did math homework, and savoring the anticipation of seeing Elena in the morning, he realized the strange loose feeling in his chest was happiness.

It scared the hell out of him. And yet, what was life about, except the possibilities of happiness? Maybe happiness, this once, could stick around.

There was really nothing standing in the way this time, was there?

Well, except that one little lie.

To Elena’s mind, the next few weeks were a perfectly orchestrated golden time. There were the usual adjustments to staff, the rearrangements and reassignments and a couple of firings, but the main group worked. Elena and Ivan and Juan formed the core of the kitchen; Alan and Patrick and a clever, beautiful bartender named Marta led the front of the house. Beneath them, front and back, was the usual army of servers, bussers, prep cooks, dishwashers, and others. One surprise turned out to be Tansy Gutierrez, the pastry chef who specialized in Mexican pastries. Her homey churros were wildly popular.

One morning, Julian showed up early at her apartment. “I have to go to Vancouver,” he said, giving her a newspaper. “There’s been a fire at the Blue Turtle.”

“What?” She scanned the article. “How bad is it?”

“Dmitri thought they’d have to close for a few weeks, at least. They think it was an electrical fire in the kitchen. Started overnight and caught the grease pits.”

She whistled. “It’s amazing there’s anything to be salvaged.”

“Someone saw the smoke and called it in. The fire department came very quickly.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you would go stay with Portia while I’m gone.”

“Of course. Alvin will be delighted.”

After he left, she could not resist one small email.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: fire!

Dmitri, I just heard about the fire. You must be so upset. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I hope it’s back up and running very soon.

Elena

Two days later, she awakened alone in Julian’s bed, snowed in by a sudden storm that had trapped Elena in the house, and everybody else out of it. Alvin snored at her feet to keep her from feeling too alone. Julian was supposed to return today, and Portia—who had been legitimately stranded at a friend’s house—would be home as soon as the snowplows went through.

But for now, in the quiet morning, she was alone in the house. Just her and her dog—no cleaner or other service staff to make her feel self-conscious. She wandered downstairs to make some coffee, and outside, it was still snowing—heavy, thick snow, the flakes like sugar. She let Alvin out and he dived into it joyfully, nose first, then turned over and rolled and rolled, rubbing his back, his nose, his entire, furry self in it, then he leapt up and ran in delirious circles. Standing at the long windows by the kitchen, she laughed. “Silly dog.”

By now she knew the layout of the cupboards and supplies. She measured beans into the grinder and buzzed it for a few seconds, counting under her breath, then poured the fresh grounds into the coffeemaker and pressed the button to get it going. The scent, heavy and heady, filled the room with the perfect aroma of coffee. She felt an urge to make churros the way Tansy had shown her, and wished Portia was here.

Instead, she took out some bread and dropped it in the toaster, discreetly hidden most of the time behind a door that rolled down from the cupboard, and took butter out of the fridge. The first fridge, the main one they used all the time, not the backup fridge around the corner. Both stainless steel.

Such serenity in so much wealth! The endless cupboards and conveniences that made life easier on every level. The dual dishwashers and warming drawers for breads and a hole for vacuum tubes in every room so you never had to lug around a heavy machine. The vast counter space, the large bathrooms and closets tucked away here and there. The luxury of the showers—the master bedroom had the greatest shower Elena had ever seen—it poured down from a giant fixture as if it were raining on the showerer, who could admire the forest through a wall of windows while getting clean. At first, it had seemed faintly wicked to be naked in front of those windows, open to view, but Julian teased her, climbed in with her. Their privacy was protected on a gated estate.

Everything. It was all so unbelievable. Taking her coffee and toast into the great room to wait for Alvin to be finished with his romp, she tried to print it all into her memory for the day when she would only be looking back on it. Would this be the moment of remembrance? Sitting alone in Julian’s house?

Moments, moments. It was something she’d done through each of the episodes of her life—pressed memories into the folds of her mind for later. It started when she had to part with her grandmother Iris, a funeral on a hot day. Then, not even a month later, her mother told her to go say goodbye to the cooks at the restaurant where her grandmother tended bar all of Elena’s eight years of life. She stood in the kitchen, smelling the strong morning scent of bleach and commercial dishwasher detergent and bacon frying on the grill, and hugged Pedro, her buddy, a fat man with a good heart who looked after Elena like she was his own.

So many places, so many people since then. So many men, in particular. She’d tasted them for her sister and her cousin, living lives for three women. No wonder she was so tired! And yet, didn’t she love them all, hadn’t they all brought gifts to her, one at a time, each one opening his hand to offer her a delight that was his alone to share?

Moments, she thought, pouring coffee on this still and quiet snowy Aspen morning. Gifts.

There was a bluesman named James in San Francisco before she got involved with Dmitri. A tall, lean man with broad shoulders and hands like dinner plates. He was a good deal older than she, and came into a club where she partied sometimes, and ordered fried fish they wrapped up in newspaper. His feet were long and thin, encased in neatly tied, expensive leather shoes, and he wore a pin-striped suit, which Elena had never seen a man wear before. He spied her and made some earthy comment in his low, rich, bluesy voice, and Elena glimpsed something in his eyes, some knowledge she didn’t have. He was too old for her, nearly twenty years older, close to fifty at the time, she thought, with his age showing on his neck, and in the thin flesh around his eyes, but not in his hearty body, which he shared generously, and not in his lush, seasoned, and delectable mouth, which offered the best kissing she had ever done. Long kisses, and his long fingers, and his deep and all-encompassing laughter. He had come from somewhere in the South, and lived in a small house in a neighborhood full of trees, and he liked to barbecue on summer Sundays, cooking ribs and chicken in a converted fifty-five-gallon drum. His sauces were made with coffee and vinegar, and he served it in a big messy pile on paper plates with white bread and American beer. James. Yes. She thought of him sometimes when the blues played and when she smelled chicken barbecue and when someone laughed just right. The happiest man she’d ever met—happy in his skin, happy in the world, happy singing or drinking or making love. In the end, too old for her and maybe too simple in his ways. She thought too much, he said, and he hadn’t liked her attention to her career, to the restaurant, where she sometimes spent sixty or seventy hours a week. He wanted more of her.