Between the Land and the Sea - By Derrolyn Anderson Page 0,6
to have tofu turkey last Thanksgiving.”
“It’s not all that bad!” Abby protested. She turned towards me, “Vegan food is good for your health, and Cruz likes the soy milk...”
“Mom, I practically live on cereal,” Cruz groaned sarcastically.
“Well,” I said as I took my seat at the table, “last Thanksgiving we were in southern India and we didn’t eat a bite of meat for five whole months. I didn’t miss it at all.” Abby smiled with satisfaction and began to fill our plates with slices of pale fried tofu and bland brown rice with lentils mixed in. It didn’t look at all like the highly seasoned and fragrant dishes that our housekeeper in Kerala had prepared for us. I looked up and into Cruz’s now triumphant eyes. He smirked at me.
“Dig in guys,” chirped Abby.
I began to see what Cruz was complaining about as I picked at the tasteless mush. I had nothing against tofu– far from it. Dad and I subsisted almost entirely on take-out in the city and ate foods from all over the world. I thought about the pillows of silky tofu in Japanese miso soup, and the spicy fried tofu from our favorite Chinese place. Abby’s tofu was the kind of tofu that gave tofu a bad name. She passed me a bowl filled with beautiful fresh greens and I heaped my plate with them.
Abby beamed approvingly, “I see you’re a salad eater. You’re gonna love the weekly farmers market. I’ll take you this Sunday.” She lit up as she described how small farmers from the area set up stands with all kinds of organic foods and produce. I began to have some hope that I might not starve.
After we ate, Cruz and I cleared the table and Abby started to wash the dishes.
“Let me do that,” I said, remembering my dad’s admonishments to help around the house.
“Not tonight honey,” said Abby, “Cruz is going to take you for a walk and show you what’s new in town.”
Cruz and I ventured out onto the foggy street. It was a mid-August evening and still light out, but the fog made it seem darker and later than it was.
“Can we go to the secret stairs?” I asked, suddenly remembering. When we were children the stairs leading down to the beach had seemed like a magical spot. Every weekend tourists drove in, parked in a lot up on the bluff and had to schlep their coolers and umbrellas down a cement path to the beach. From our little neighborhood there was an older, better way down.
As we walked Cruz told me all about the high school and how miserable he was there. He described the cliques of surfers and stoners, rich kids and football players. Sensitive and artistic, Cruz felt like a misfit. I could relate. He told me about his best friend Megan, and how they liked to hang out at the local coffee shop and surf the internet for new music.
I confessed that I was nervous about going to high school, and Cruz assured me that he’d be there to hang out with and show me around campus. I told Cruz that I’d never attended a “real” school and didn’t think now was a good time to start. He commiserated with me when I complained that I’d never really meshed with kids my own age.
He frowned, “Nobody I know really gets me,” he said grimly.
“Well, I don’t even know anybody... so there,” I said, making him laugh.
As we talked I learned more about Cruz. Like me, he spent much of his time drawing. He told me he designed clothes, and liked to sew. He was overjoyed that I could discuss the nuances of fashion with him in detail.
“I didn’t know you were into clothes!” he exclaimed.
“I didn’t know you were either,” I said.
We had an easy camaraderie, discovering that we truly had a lot in common. I found our similar artistic and independent natures comforting, evidence of a connection I didn’t realize I was missing. Both of us had been brought up in a family of two, for we’d each lost a parent when we were just infants– a big part of ourselves that we had no memory of. Cruz’s father was killed in an auto accident before he was born, and my mother died just after delivering me.
Her name was Adria, and that’s about all I knew about her. She was gone, her ashes scattered at sea, all traces of her erased from existence. I didn’t have