A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,13

and cooking surfaces. Furiously.

Well then. The small words taunt as I fling off my apron. Kitchens have always been the one place I could rely on for guaranteed success, but today, this one is the site of yet another loss. I can’t spend one more minute inside the burnt odor of my failure. Attire wise, I’m already set for a quick escape. I drink half a bottle of water and exit the side door, deciding on the same route I was going to run two hours ago.

Apparently, the Owl and Crow lives in the St. Cross neighborhood of Winchester. I navigate toward a scenic trail bordering the River Itchen, my steps weighted with jet lag and Celsius. I pant and struggle along a narrow, rain-soaked street dotted with brick and stone homes. Again, the tying architectural theme is: old. As the street forks, I meet the wide mouth of a main access road. Thoughts rush with the wind; I knew they would. This isn’t the first time I’ve handed my frustration to sneakers and sweat.

Well then.

The chef in me realizes exactly what Polly’s response, or lack of one, means. Budding chefs often get dragged by superiors who want next-level best for them. Abuela taught me with love, but she still held me to nothing less than the kind of food that makes people happy to line up for it. If I made something mediocre, I heard about it. Then I did better the next time.

In Polly’s eyes, I wasn’t even worthy of critical words and “I told you so.” If I was, she would’ve at least questioned how or why I’d set the oven too hot. She would’ve reminded me that professional cooks don’t have room to make careless errors. But to her, I’m not anyone to be taken seriously. I’m only a kid, trying on a chef’s hat in a costume box, playing “baker” in a make-believe game.

Even kitchens are telling me I don’t belong here.

My body is just as confused. Running on UK ground is a different sport. In Miami, the muggy heat slicks across my skin while the sun whips my back with slashes of too bright and too hot. Another kind of pain pulls here. Cold rakes against my face and grabs my lungs, webbing into my sinuses. I tuck my hands into my shirt cuffs. The rain’s moved on, but the wind jabs at trees, loosening droplets over my hair.

But then the map leads me on to a pedestrian path carved into acres of pistachio-colored grass. Spencer mentioned the River Itchen between bites of vanilla custard last night. Here, I meet the narrow channel of the famous landmark as it ribbons toward city center. The footpath worms along beside the gently moving water. I’m alone. And I don’t know what to do with this quiet.

My Miami life is noisy. I can barely stir together one whole thought without a background track of piano and drums and my neighbor’s yippy dog. I live under crowing laughter and jibes in the panadería kitchen. Crashing waves and catcalling tourists. My landscape is thunder and the rustle of birds fighting over flowers, the everyday alarm clock of wild roosters.

But now it’s just me and a river and wet grass and what’s left of my heart. My brain fills the emptiness, acting out the noises of my home. It’s screaming inside my skull that running was the thing Stefanie and I always did together, every Saturday across Key Biscayne Bridge. It fills spaces with people too—how Andrés and I strolled the bustling Miami Riverwalk, sharing ice cream and butter pecan lips, my hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. My mind sings the warm alto of Abuela’s voice. “Mi estrellita.” My little star. “It’s time to make the tamales. Ven.” Come.

Not today and never again.

Dios, there’s nowhere to put it. No way can I trust this alien green and marbled gray with the past three months. No matter what my parents think, Miami knows what to do with me.

And as the trail comes to an end into town, it’s even clearer how far I am from home. My steps slow to a brisk walk. Old… older… oldest. Trade my spandex and sneakers for a corseted gown and court shoes. This place begs for it. When were these painted row houses—red-doored and crawling with vines—even built? Ornate windows and crested emblems jut out everywhere. Many of the stone surfaces have weathered to sharp angles and rough planes; one shove