hanginggardenstories:
GINGER, LEMON, & HONEY,
by Mia García
They built the room at the back with
glass that stole the colors from the sky for my grandmother’s arias. For the resonance
of her voice that occupied every corner of the room that danced with the touch
of green and deep purple that streamed in; a voice that carried your pain away
and eased heartache. My grandmother’s voice traveled far outside the room and
down the streets of our town, and was the reason we were never run out of here.
They built the room for her, but my
mother made it her own…or so she tells me, her smirk playfully kissing the tip
of her mug as wafts of heat play across her face, and disappear above her. I
watch as one slows down, caressing the shape of her cheek. I wonder at her
magic, how easily it flows, and when I do I get a pit in my stomach that
reminds me I’ve yet to harness mine.
She takes a sip of
the thick brown liquid. I wait. It’s a new recipe and I need approval. Her eyes
close, and I imagine she’s taking in the last minute dash of vanilla. Her smile
grows wider.
“Delicious, you
know just what I need, always.”
I blush, my own
tongue tests out the creamy chocolate as it coats my throat. It is not as kind.
Needs a pinch of sugar, no more should it become cloying. Outside the rain
patters along the roof and against the windows, a gentle rhythm. A rainy day
always calls for hot chocolate. My mother knows that, that’s why she called it.
That and she loves the sound it makes.
I am lost in these
thoughts when I hear the crisp sound of her mug on the wood floor. She stands,
which is my queue to back up against the wall and give her space. They built
the room for my grandmother but my mother makes it her own. No more is this
true than when I watch her. I inch back till I’m up against the wall, place the
two mugs by my side. The light is faint because of the weather but it still
reflects off the wood floor, a dash of pink, a strip of green, it makes the
room look like a watercolor painting.
My mother paces
around the room till she feels it tingling up her spine, reaching out through
every part of her. Then she’s alive, electric; the tiny hairs on my arms rise
as she fills the room with her shine, her energy, her magic. It is so strong it
calls my own and I ride the wave of it for a moment, sensing all life around
me. I am lost in her.
The rain outside
slows to a drizzle.
“That went well,”
she says, covered in a thin coating of sweat, and comes toward me. When she
sits I huddle against her for warmth.
“Who was it for
today?” I ask.
My grandmother
answers from the doorway, her gray hair cropped close to her shoulders. “For
Mrs. Valeriano. Her baby is due soon. A little bit a calm will do her good.”
I nod, already
feeling the magic recede like the tide, leaving nothing but wistful sand and a
few shells behind it.
My grandmother stands
beside me, nudging my shoulder with her leg until I look up at her brown eyes.
“You’ll find it, mi amor, in your own time.”
I nod, it’s
nothing I hadn’t heard before, though lately my mind refuses to listen.
Centering is different for everyone; for my grandmother it’s her voice, for my
mother her dance, for me? Still to be determined, though my power had no
problem rising to meet theirs if only for a moment. It takes patience, I know,
but I’m not sure how much of that I have left.
Outside the
daisies are out and bright once again, just last week they were brown and ready
to return to the earth. It’s our fault really, our magic confuses their natural
rhythm, and they’ll need us in the spring to set them right once again. We
don’t mean to make them bloom, but they soak up the ripples that tumble out.
Across from our house our neighbor Clara waves at me from her own garden, where
I see several roses have bloomed as well.
I cross, my long
black braid bouncing against my back as I walk. “I’m sorry about that.” I point
to the roses.
She waves the
apology away, bending to snip a few and offering me one. “It’s OK, maybe
they’ll cheer up Ana.”
I notice the deep
circle under her eyes, and how her brown skin looks muted as well.
“Is Ana unwell?”
She nods. “Perils
of being a kindergarten teacher, every month is the worst cold and flu we’ve
ever seen. This month’s hit her particularly hard.” Clara tried to smile but
had no energy for even that small gesture. “She wakes up with such nasty
coughing fits sometimes, it’s scary, I keep expecting her to cough up blood, I
just…” Her shoulders sag and this time a smile does come. “Guess I shouldn’t
complain. It’s a cold and others have it worse, my mother would say.”
“I can ask my
mother…” I start to say. Most get to this anyway, it usually bothers me, but
today I’m the one suggesting it.
Another smile,
this time all the way to her eyes. “Thank you, but I don’t think we would make
it to the top of the list anytime soon.”
“Doesn’t hurt.”
Finally she nods,
then turns back to her house.
#
There is no one
home when I return, and my body won’t settle. I turn the rose over in my hand,
marveling at the blush pink color of its petals. I picture Clara’s tired frame
setting the flowers where Ana could see them. Making sure she got as much rest
as possible while she got little. Clara would be sick next, I knew she would, I
could see it in the dullness of her form.
I couldn’t shake
the image as my hands reach for the nearest pot like they’re possessed, then as
many lemons as I could carry to the cutting board. With a knife I make quick
work, slicing through each lemon, wondering how many I would need then
answering: Enough for two.
Enough for two of what? I wonder but do
not stop. I squeeze the juice into the pot, feeling a slight tingle at the tip
of my fingers, like they’d woken up from a dream. I reach for a cup, dropping
hot water into the pot and setting it to simmer. As I stare at the bubbling
liquid my body is one step ahead of me as I turn to dig through our storage
closet and two of our largest thermos. After I clean them I drop a squirt of
honey in each, taking a quick finger-full as I put it away.
I stop, there’s
something missing, I can feel it, my body could feel it like a crick in the
neck. Running my hands through our pantry I think on what it could possibly be
when I stop again, my fingers brushing up against a root.
“Ginger.” I smile
down at the robust root, its energy springing up to greet me. I picture it
soaking into the tea, yes, a tea, that’s
what I’m making. I picture it soaking in, combining with the lemon and hint
of honey. I picture Clara opening the thermos, the scent energizing her. Then a
cup to Ana, her first deep breath in weeks. I cut a chunk of the ginger and
grate it into each of the thermos then pour the lemon tea over, sealing the
canister.
My fingers feel
drawn and heavy as I cross the road, as if I’d overworked them. Odd.
I leave the two
thermos on Clara’s doorstep with instructions (drink as needed) and ring the bell.
#
The next morning I
ask the favor.
My mom can’t dance
for Ava, but my grandmother promises to sing once all her other requests are
completed. I nod knowing that’s as good as I’ll get. I wish I knew how to
harness my power then perhaps I could do something instead of just sitting
around like a lump. My grandmother’s arms curl around me.
“It will happen,
paciencia.”
“I’m not sure I
have any patience left.”
She chuckles.
“Well, how about a distraction?”
“What did you have
in mind?”
“I forgot
something,” she whispers into my ear. “I promised the ladies at the club that I
would provide dessert for our next meeting, and—”
“You forgot,” I
finish for her.
“Yes.” She
squeezes me again. “It would greatly appreciate it.”
“It’s tonight isn’t
it?”
Her smile is
apologetic. “Por favor.”
Thoughts of my
inabilities wait to reawaken. She’s right, I could use the distraction.
“Anything in particular?”
“I trust you, but
I need it by six tonight.”
“Well then,” I
point to the door, “let me get started.”
She laughs,
lifting her hands in surrender, because if the little room at the back was
theirs, this room, this room always belonged to me. Always.
I flick through my
notebooks, pulling down the one dedicated to everything sweet. As I open it
several pages crackle under my touch, coated with enough sugar to consider them
a sweet as well. Nothing jumps out as I flip the pages. I run my fingers by the
recipes hoping for a spark, something to help me chose. “Come on magic, be
cool.”
It is not cool.
I picture how my
mother paces around the little room, lifting her face to the sun as rose
painted her cheeks, a strip of green dashed across her forehead, and deeper
tones of red and purple gathered along her torso. My grandfather designed the
window-he was a maker, that’s where his magic lived-filling it with every color
painted across the sun-setting sky the day he fell for my grandmother. Now that
sky was part of our lives every day. I close my eyes and picture the way the
light plays with the glass, how the colors stretch and move as the day
progresses. How my mother stretched out her body in the same way, hunching and
arching her back as her magic answered her call. How my grandmother’s voice is
as alive as the flowers that sprung from its wake.
I sway now; I feel
my hand reaching in front of me. In my mind I picture the bright yellow at the
tips of the window as my fingers graze along the remaining lemons in the bowl.
I bring one to my nose and the crisp smell brings a burst of energy. I stretch,
feeling the familiar need to create, rolling the lemon between my fingers I
gather two more, placing them on the table. My body flies across the kitchen,
as colors flood my senses, I pick cardamom for the blushes of pink and red. The
pale orange glass leads me to honey. Then finally, I gather sugar, flour, milk,
and pans, thinking of my grandmother’s patience as she taught me my first
proper cake, then the look on her face when I made one on my own. Her pride is
a bright blue sky. I look over all of my ingredients, strangely aware where
each should go.
I start with the
batter, blending the flour with the cardamom, then adding honey, milk…the
mixture is a light brown when I’m done, and the spice travels up from the bowl.
I place it into two round pans and into the waiting oven. Dusting off my hands
I roll the lemons on the counter, pressing down to release the juices, I pick
one and grate the yellow skin. The scent of lemon fills the air and I breathe
it in, picturing my lemon tree out back and how quickly it grew for me. I whisk
the zest with the juice adding sugar and two fresh eggs, the lemony aroma
dancing around me as I mix in the flavors, deciding to add cream in towards the
end. Now off to cool along with the
cake.
When ready I take
a white plate and slice each of the cake rounds in half as if I’d done it a
million times before. I place the first layer on the plate, drizzling honey
into the waiting nooks. The cake guzzles up the honey then waits patiently for
the next layer: Lemon custard. And on and on it went, a layer of cake, then
honey, then custard until it all piles up on the plate, complete with a curl of
lemon zest on top.
Done.
“I knew it,” my
grandmother says. I turn to see her and mother standing by the doorway, smiles
from ear to ear.
I crack my
knuckles as the earlier ache returns, though now it travels up my arms and down
my spine. “Knew what?”
My mother shakes
her head. “She’ll never let it go.”
My grandmother
rushes towards me, bringing her arms around me. I am still confused, until she
takes my face in her hands and says: “A kitchen witch.”
“A what?”
She’s smug as she
points to the cake. “A kitchen witch! We haven’t had one for over a hundred
years I think.”
“Me?” I rub my
hands, staring at the cake like it would hold all the answers.
“The ache is
temporary.” My mother gathers my hand in hers, rubbing away the pain. “It will
be easier to gather the magic to you.”
Was it true? Am I a kitchen witch?
I think back to my
life, how I always picked the spices without looking. How I preferred to make
my own recipes from what my nose led me to. How creating dishes was like
breathing. How could that be my center and not know?
“So this cake is
magic?”
“All cakes are
magic.” My grandmother winks. “This cake? This cake is home. I can feel it.
It’s brimming with the feeling of home, subtle but breathtaking.”
“Why now? Why
haven’t I felt it before?”
This time my
mother answers. “You probably did. It starts low, like a beat, or a rhythm at
the back of your head. I danced for years before I realized it made the flowers
bloom.”
I look down at my
fingertips, trying to remember the feeling, the tingle that consumed them just
moments ago. Had I felt that before? I will drive myself mad thinking this way.
Just then the
doorbell rings, cutting through their revelry. “I’ll get it,” I say, needing
the time to think.
At the door a
bouquet of pink roses greets me with the two thermoses next to it. I look up
quick enough to catch Clara reaching her door, she turns to me, and her skin is
no longer muted, her shoulders no longer slump, and her face holds only a hint
of tiredness. She catches my eyes and smiles before closing the door.
I pick up the
flowers, and empty thermoses, drawing in the scent.
When I turn my
grandmother has a small green notebook in her hands.
“For you,” she
says. “Time to start your own list.”
Mia García is the author of Even If the Sky Falls (Katherine Tegen) and was born and raised in San Juan, Puerto
Rico. She moved to New York where she studied creative writing at The New
School, worked in publishing, and now lives under a pile of to-be-read books.
Learn more about her: Tumblr | Twitter | Instagram | Website