Culinary Cultures

Mauricio gently turned them over. Dark-skinned thighs revealing pale flesh.  His fiancée leaned forward to form loose blonde-colored braids with quick fingers. They were good together. He turned his attention to white becoming burnished gold beneath his skillful touch. Deftly he poured on the sauce, adding spice to the pleasure.  Yes, they were good together. He wanted their parents to recognize this, to see what can result when the familiar encounters what is different, the outcome—a feast for the senses, nourishment for the body, and ultimately, a new life for all of them: a large and happy family.

Family dinner. It had been Rachel’s idea, but he quickly seized the opportunity. They planned together, prepared together. So good they were together. He helped her place her large round loaf in the oven— wheat-colored braids, so like her own—to bronze in the heat alongside his six brown thighs, nestled in a bed of tanned rice, swimming in juices, fragrant with garlic and onion. Un arroz con pollo magnifico—sí, his mamá would be proud. Rachel’s had taught her to make the sourdough challah—sí, her mother would also be proud. But the fathers ... the fathers were already proud ... too proud.

Rachel’s parents arrived first. They sized up Mauricio as if he were a suit, which he never wore, which may have been the reason for the shaking heads and rolling eyes as they dismissed him with a backward glance and shrug of the shoulders before their daughter seated them on the living room sofa and wooed them with wine and appetizers. Rachel’s turkey-salami-stuffed figs, topped with sliced pickled jalapeños, snuggled next to Mauricio’s deep-fried cilantro-lime-jalapeño avocado balls, encrusted in crushed tortilla chips.  Mauricio, keeping his eyes on the food in the oven, tuned in to the sounds of a lively cutthroat match of racquetball, tongues for racquets slinging comments against the walls. Mr. Abraham was denouncing Mauricio’s offering while Rachel assured him they were entirely kosher. Mrs. Abraham was pleading with him to try both tidbits, assuring him they were absolutely delicious. Suddenly, a scream accompanied the sound of the doorbell.

Rachel called out to Mauricio to please get her mother a glass of water while she, Rachel, got the door. And so it was that Señor Lozano and his wife entered the room in time to see Rachel’s mother, alternately crying and gulping while fanning her face with a paperback prayer book, prominently stamped with Hebrew letters. Mauricio watched his parents cross themselves before they crossed the room. Once he and Rachel sorted the affair, his mother joined Rachel in a cooperative endeavor to ease the shock Mrs. Abraham had received upon stuffing two bites of jalapeño-stuffed appetizers into her mouth simultaneously. In the opposite corner, Mr. Abraham, once assured of his wife’s recovery, and Señor Lozano, having taken his measure of the man across the room, engaged in a civilized version of “chicken,” having nothing to do with food, but rather, staring at each other until one of them flinched, which both did when the oven timer beeped to announce their meal was ready. 

Rachel herded the guests to their seats while Mauricio transferred hot food from the oven to the table.  Mrs. Abraham was still apologizing and Mauricio’s mother was still consoling her when the moment to dine had definitely arrived and could be postponed no longer. Mauricio and Rachel had played verbal tug-of-war over this moment while planning the occasion. Both had won.  Together they stood side-by-side and informed their parents that, in lieu of the Bracha--Jewish blessing before any food is consumed--or the Catholic prayer before meals, there would be a moment of silence, during which each could pray according to his or her conviction. And then he and Rachel would lead in a recitation of Psalm 23 and all who wished could join them. By the time they reached, “You prepare a table before me ...” everyone at the table was smiling.

But when Mauricio’s mother exclaimed, “¡Masa madre!” at her first taste of challah, Rachel’s mother thought she was swearing and nearly rose from her chair to defend the honor of her daughter and the family challah recipe. Mauricio quickly explained this was Spanish for “sourdough” which his mamá was terribly fond of. His words, backed by his mother’s smile of delight as she chewed the soft bread, appeased Mrs. Abraham so that she, in turn, compelled her cautious husband to taste the delectable chicken and rice casserole their daughter’s friend had made. By the time desserts were served, the food and wine had done their part to ease tension and promote conversation.

The parents retired to the sofa and easy chairs.  Mauricio and Rachel pulled dining chairs across the invisible line on the laminate floor, separating areas of dining and living; although, Mauricio saw no such division between those two activities.  The young couple placed plates laden with Mexican wedding cookies and Sephardic wedding cookies on the coffee table.  As the older couples taste-tested the treats, they made one discovery after another. 

They realized the white cookies and their recipes were nearly identical, both made with an abundance of sugar and nuts, one adding cinnamon and the other vanilla. The men reluctantly exchanged given names and found they were brothers, even if in name only.  Yosef and Binyamin, being brothers in the Bible, as well as the given names of Mr. Abraham and Señor Lozano, the two men were ready to concede the hand of God in bringing them together until Mrs. Abraham whispered something into her husband’s ear. 

Hearing his exclamation of disgust and fearing some sort of outburst, Rachel quickly sprang to her father’s side, knelt, and the room went silent but for the hissing sounds of their whispers. When she patted his hand and stood, Mauricio exhaled as loudly as a tea kettle.  Yosef Abraham asked Binyamin Lozano how long he and his wife had been married. Thankfully, this launched the foursome into a delightful discussion of how and when each couple met, numbers of children, and so on. Meanwhile, Rachel quietly briefed Mauricio that his mother had remarked to hers that her name wasn’t really Lozano but Sofia Garcia Vida--in the Hispanic tradition. The woman not bearing her husband's last name led Devorah Abraham to inferences not worthy of mention.  

All at once, Rachel’s father waved his arms as though calling a time out. He asked Mauricio’s mother, rather pointedly, if she had told his wife that her last name was Vida. Upon confirming this was indeed her mother’s surname and so part of her own as well, Yosef exclaimed that his Sephardic grandmother had been a Vida! Mauricio and Rachel watched in astonishment as their parents swapped genealogies, tracing both family’s roots back to Spain.  The young couple glowed to see the entire get-our-parents-together idea culminating in a surprising success. 

They nodded to one another and stood. After commanding the attention of their folks, they announced their decision to be married in six weeks. 

At first, the news was met with stony silence, which was undoubtedly preferable to the thing that broke that silence.  Señor Lozano loudly asked Mr. Abraham if his daughter was a virgin.  He shouted that she had better be, as he glared, first at Rachel, then at Mauricio.  Mauricio had not rehearsed his reply and clearly would have preferred not to speak about his private life in front of an audience.  He wished he had something on the stove he could rescue, but one look at Rachel’s face convinced him that he must rescue her from this embarrassment.  So he told the truth.  Both of them were virgins. 

The parents leaped to their feet and began to embrace the young couple.  The men shook hands with each other.  Their wives hugged.  Mauricio and Rachel were giddy with glad relief ... until ... Devorah Abraham excitedly gushed how wonderful that their daughter, being a Jewess, would soon be bringing little Jewish babies into the world.  This was contested by Sofia who announced that their babies would be christened in the Catholic church.

Mauricio took his parents' elbows and led them out the door while Rachel hooked arms with her parents and escorted them to their car.  They promised another dinner, another discussion. Waving, they turned, re-entered Rachel’s duplex, and began to tidy up.

The young couple leaned over the dishwasher, and their foreheads touched.  They paused in that position, pressing skin to skin.  They lowered their laden and raised them empty, reaching across the racks filled with memories of the evening, still fragrant with spices, reaching across cultures to touch, to clasp hands.  They closed the dishwasher and embraced, filling the space between them with the secret ingredient for every dish served up on life’s buffet: LOVE.