Song of the Mockingbird: My Journey with Josefina

I feel guilty about Audrey, so I ask the girls what else they do for fun. There isn’t really anywhere to go: no malls, movie theaters, or TV. Josefina says Tía Dolores has brought many things from Mexico City, including a piano. She talks about it like Tía Dolores has a pet giraffe, but I nod anyway. Maybe Tía Dolores will play it for them tonight. And Josefina is learning, too.

Josefina adds that they dance and are learning to read and write. They’ve all been studying with Tía Dolores for about a year. The sisters look proud. My mouth drops open. They’re only now learning to read? I shut it quickly. I don’t want to embarrass them.

Tía Dolores adds that there are important tasks, too. The girls’ lessons with Tía Magdalena will benefit the whole household one day. Josefina sees I don’t know who Tía Magdalena is and explains she’s Papá’s older sister from the village, teaching the girls to be a curandera, a healer. I nod as if I remember.

When we finish slicing the ristras, Josefina and I carry them to pegs in the courtyard wall, swapping the old for the fresh. We carry the dried ristras through another doorway into what looks like a storeroom, past barrels and bins along the walls, and Josefina hangs them on pegs there.

I follow Josefina into another large room, a kitchen. A big adobe fireplace lines one wall, jars and baskets on a shelf behind it, and above it a broad shelf like a bunk bed, reached by a ladder and topped with blankets. A wooden table holds melons, peppers, and onions in pottery bowls. The air is hot and smells of roasting meat. Carmen, the cook, bends over the fireplace, stirring a big iron pot.

Ana kneels on the floor, rubbing a cylinder-shaped stone over a flat one, grinding dried corn kernels into a yellow, grainy powder. Sweat beads at her temples from the effort. She notices me watching and says supper won’t be long. I must be hungry. She’s about to make the tortillas.

I don’t see how yellow flour turns into tortillas anytime soon, so I resign myself to a long wait. Ana dumps the flour into a bowl, pours in a stream of water, and mixes it into little dough balls. She flattens them and lays them on a legged griddle set over coals raked from the fireplace. Within two minutes, she lifts off the tortillas and piles them onto a plate.

My mouth hangs open. If only Dad were here, Ana could give him lessons in New Mexican cooking. As Ana announces supper, my stomach gives a loud gurgle, and the sisters look at each other and smile.