A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,71

into my kitchen, mid-conversation.

“Yeah, yeah, Nicks is worthy. Legendary.” Flora shakes a finger at Jules. “But Benatar. Trained classically at Juilliard and all! It bloody well shows in her range.”

“I hear you,” Jules answers. “Nicks, though? Come on. She practically wrote the manual for eighties rock.”

I give the broth a stir. “Um, hi?”

“Sorry, love,” Jules says. “Okay, maybe you can settle our squabble. Undisputed queen of eighties rock, Stevie Nicks or Pat Benatar?”

“You’re better off having that conversation with my sister,” I say. “She speaks vinyl.”

Jules points her nose here and everywhere. “Christ, Lila, if this isn’t what Heaven smells like.”

“Angelic is always the goal. But didn’t Orion tell you guys seven? You’re about four hours early.”

“That’s on me,” Flora says. “We’re headed into town, and I think I left my sunnies here this morning?”

I remove the finished stock from the heat, pointing my wooden spoon at the opposite counter. “Out of tomato splatter range.”

While Flora retrieves her sunglasses, Jules peers over my shoulder. All burners are occupied with prep sauces, stocks, and fillings. “We’re so chuffed about tonight. Remy, too. Usually when we get invited for tea it’s pizza or maybe takeout from the local chippie.”

I pantomime a fatal wound.

Jules laughs. “I don’t do much cooking myself either. My mum does a worthy job, and then Rems and I are always scrounging pub food.”

“You cook songs, Jules.”

“Too right. But it would be cool to learn a few tricks.”

Kitchen tricks are my music. I rest my spoon. “You could stay and cook with me?”

“Lessons from the boss?” Jules beams, then turns to Flora. “What do you say? We can grab lattes and scrounge around Victoria’s shop any old day. Lila is only here so long.”

The melancholy words poke gently, but I’m already full of them. I know, I know.

Flora shoves a plate of leftover lemon biscuits Jules’s way. I always have them close to feed a certain tea merchant. “Try one. I helped bake them.”

Jules bites into one of the crisp wafers, then makes a big show out of trying to pocket the entire batch.

“Yeah,” Flora says. “We’ll stay and help.”

Tasks explained and divided, I get my sous chefs washed, aproned, and set up on the island. We turn up eighties rock while Flora peels potatoes and Jules handles vegetable chopping like a pro.

Cate waltzes in. “Lila you said arroz con pollo, not half of a Cuban cookbook.”

I wave her over. She pokes her nose into the bubbling pot of rice pudding. “Arroz con leche, too?”

“And papas rellenas and croquetas de jamón.”

Cate drags over a stool. She observes quietly, but I can almost see the thoughts zooming behind her eyes. “Before you were born—way before I met Spencer—your abuela and abuelo had me over for dinners like this. All the time. Your mother knew plenty, but Miami Cuban food was Abuela. Her old kitchen was like a shoebox, but she used every little corner. The smell, Lila—just like this. I followed it in here. The guests are going to wonder when supper is served.”

The Cuban siren song.

“If I close my eyes, I’m in Miami again,” Cate continues, “and the air conditioner is broken and we’re all dripping sweat with portable fans blowing loud behind us and the music playing louder.” Her hands on her heart. “Your abuela Lydia could have been in the most high-end kitchen in her mind. And more than me, she fed everyone. When times were tough for her neighbors, she brought pots of caldo de pollo and pan Cubano.”

I lift my gaze through the molasses drag of memory. Flora and Jules have stopped chopping, just listening. This is my Miami, my history. This is me. “Stay,” I tell Cate. “You can cook with us.”

She reaches into the stack of aprons, grinning.

* * *

My Cuban relatives came from a small farm near Cienfuegos—one hundred fires. The inn kitchen steams and smokes with nearly that much heat now. I show the girls how to cut up chickens, then work with Flora to brown the pieces in cast iron for arroz con pollo. Cate and Jules tuck spiced ground beef picadillo filling inside a coating of the mashed potatoes Jules boiled and seasoned. The pair watches me, then takes over forming the mixture into balls. Next, they roll ham croqueta filling into breadcrumbs. We’ll fry them up at the last minute.

“Keep the veggies moving so they don’t burn,” I tell Flora.

Flora dutifully turns and stirs. Then I let her add the dry white rice and stock and finally, the