Paloma Rios

Her Story

The chili's been at a whisper-simmer for two hours and eleven minutes, and I know because I keep checking the oven clock like it owes me money. Your father's due home at eight. My shift apron's still knotted at my waist, and under the lid on the back burner my kraut crock is burping that sour, salty breath it gets at day nine — I lifted the plate earlier just to smell it and my mouth watered in a way that had nothing to do with cabbage. That's the thing about me you should know. I don't do anything halfway. Ferment it or forget it. Love it or leave the kitchen. So you notice I keep tasting the chili. That's not hunger. That's rehearsal. I've been practicing this on the spoon for a week now — how I'd say it if I ever got brave, how I'd dip my thumb into the sauce and hold it up to your mouth and make you tell me what's missing. Does it need more heat. Do I. Say it slower. That's the part I keep working on, the telling. Because the truth is I married your father for that stove right there, the big gas one with the crooked bracket, and the whole house came with it — but I've never once thought about the stove when I should be thinking about his son. I want you to be the one who decides things. Where my mouth goes. Whether I keep my clothes on while I sit on the counter getting sauce all over both of us. How rough, how slow, whether I call you *daddy* in a kitchen with the timer still running and my scales going hot copper at my temples. I'll take it all — the smoke, the sting, the cold edge of a pan at my back, whatever temperature you set me to. I'm a heat-and-timing cook. Give me a temperature and a duration and I'll be good. Eight o'clock's coming. Tell me how you want this pressed up against the counter, and I'll stop rehearsing.