cup water
1/2 cup butter
1/4 tsp salt
Lard or shortening for frying
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon
It all happens fast, so get it all ready ahead of time—measure out the flour, break the eggs and beat them lightly. In a saucepan, heat water, butter, and salt to boil, then stir in flour. Stir vigorously over low heat until the mix forms a ball, about a minute, then remove from heat and beat the eggs into the dough until everything is smooth.
Heat lard or shortening (about 2 inches) in a heavy frying pan until a bit of dough sizzles.
Spoon the dough into a cake-decorating tube with a fat star tip and squeeze out strips of dough about 4–5 inches long, and fry about three or four at a time, 2 minutes or so on each side. Drain on paper towels and sprinkle generously with sugar and cinnamon while still hot, or try powdered sugar. Makes men and boys your slaves for life.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Elena finally dragged herself to the Orange Bear around three. She’d originally intended to arrive just past noon, but—well. Julian. As she walked through the gilded late-fall day, with wind clattering through the last cottonwood leaves and purple clouds piling up over the mountains, her limbs were liquid, her mind soft. She’d let Julian take Alvin to Portia while she worked, and would send him there again tomorrow for the opening. She was paying Portia for babysitting. Julian promised, bending in to kiss her neck, that he would bring the dog home after her shift.
Elena didn’t know if she would survive that long. Flashes of his mouth, his hands, all the things they’d been doing all afternoon, kept slamming into her, as if her memories were gusts of perfumed lust.
Wow. She clutched it all close to herself, smiling. Maybe she could fall in love again. Maybe there was one more in her, one more chance—
Stop. She shook her hair out of her face and squared her shoulders as she came up the walk to the restaurant. Deliberately, she pushed herself into business-mind. This was important stuff—in a little more than twenty-four hours, her first solo menu would debut to the public.
The restaurant looked welcoming and warm in the late day. The outside had been sanded and painted a pale golden orange with white trim, which sounded terrible but looked wonderful against the reddish-brown earth and deep blue and green of the mountains. As winter came, the vivid blue skies and white slopes would provide a spectacular backdrop. She picked up a plastic straw, blown onto the steps from somewhere, and admired the sign, carved by a local artisan. An orange bear with a broad dark nose and the letters in relief. Around the edges of the sign were carved pink and orange stylized flowers, and the lettering—The Orange Bear—was a friendly, soft-edged font.
A flutter of mixed emotions moved in her. Excitement. Joy. Anticipation. Terror. Tomorrow night, she’d be a wreck. For tonight, thanks to Julian, she was feeling pretty loose.
The kitchen was in full uproar. The music played and the dishwashers swished and orders rang out in Spanish and English. A prep cook chopped scallions and Ivan was massaging something on a cutting board, his hands and arms covered with meat and spices up to his elbows. He was whistling and lifted his chin in greeting as she came in. Juan stood at the stove, stirring something in a big iron pot. “Hey, Jefa,” he said, calling her over. “Taste this soup, eh? I’m thinking I found us a new daily special.”
She took out a spoon and ladled out a taste. It was a deep, velvety chicken broth with tomatoes and garlic and spices, and floating bits of chicken and tortillas. She closed her eyes, put her hand over her lips to press in the flavor. It seemed she had never tasted chicken broth before, that this was the pinnacle of all. “Good God,” she said in English. “That is spectacular.”
He smiled, the big gentle eyes lighting up in pleasure. “Gracias, Jefa.”
“Definitely put it in the rotation.” She took out a fresh spoon, ladled out a second taste. “Who taught you to cook?” she asked in Spanish.
“Mi padre. He had a restaurant in Juarez. Good cook,” he said. “Not always a wise man, but—” He shrugged. “He meant well. I lit a candle for him today.”
“I made a table at home,” she said. “My sister would have been thirty-seven years old today.”
He looked at her. Nodded in his quiet way.
“Jefa!” Ivan called.