Make Yourself at Home [Vas/Katelyn/Indie]

Vasco Izar

Beef simmered in the copper pan on the stove on top of a blue gas flame. I sprinkled another pinch of salt in and pushed the meat back and forth through the oil, breaking it into pieces with a spoon. Yani pressed in front of me despite my protest and stood atop a footstool to get a better glimpse. Together we lifted the pot and scooped the meat into a bowl to separate it, all the while Yani huffing to blow at the steam. I set the pot back down and started on the peppers and onions, turning them over in the oil until they started to wither. Next came a handful of spices (paprika, cayenne, oregano, and cumin) scattered across the pan to simmer. Scraping my wooden spoon across the pan, I waved my hand toward my face to take in the earthy flavor.

The lockdown had been on for almost a week, and somehow, I’d grasped onto a strand of calm through the mundane. Even though I’d spent hours late into the evening going over the damage to the silos, or the reports of peacekeeper abuse in edges of the district, I’d been reminded to reserve time for what could keep me grounded through it all. Cooking dinner with Yani ensured that I’d always be home before curfew, and better still, let us do something together.

We spent the first part of the afternoon prepping dough together. She’d gotten flour all over her apron and complained about how hard it was to stir the butter and water together. Not that it kept her from turning the mixture into a sticky dough the served well enough to hold the meat I’d been cooking. Her only request was to leave out the raisins this time, a fact I only obliged because it’d been my preference (and Gero’s, if memory served, but we might have been the only ones that liked them that way).

By the time we put all of it into the oven, the clock over the back door read six-thirty.

No Me Platiques played out from the record player while I started on the dishes, already weary of the pile we’d created getting dinner ready. Yani sprawled across the tile floor with her horses, little wooden figurines she’d been gifted (or handed down – it was hard to keep track who gave what to her sometimes). I hummed along, now and again singing along, which always drew a side-eye from my daughter. She’d never say how poorly I sang, and probably thought it’d hurt my feelings if she did, but someday she’d join the rest of the family in comparing my singing to the death of a cat.

The timer atop the stove ticked along, and I opened a window to let in a cool summer breeze.

Emmanuel and Sophía had both determined it better not to come home for the duration of the lockdown, both stating they wanted to give me space as I worked. They were kind enough to spare me the reason that they didn’t want to live with their father as though they were teenagers again. Kids, eh?

But there was always a silver lining through all of it. That meant there was still room for two more to join us, at least for dinner and then maybe longer, if they’d felt like it. And as things got worse with the fires, I couldn’t not each out to those that I thought might’ve wanted a bit more company. Totally unselfish reasons on my part – not that I was bouncing on my heels at the thought of playing cards or talking about their star charts – I just wanted to give my friends a space they might’ve felt a bit more comfortable during such uncertain times.

When there was a rap at the door, I’d just opened the oven door for the third time, watching the breading brown.

“Un momento!” I called out, sliding the oven closed and dusting off the front of my shirt. I probably could've prepared a bit more for guests but formality had lost its way after the third day of the lockdown. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Who’s there?”