The Prince of los Cocuyos: A Miami Childhood (5 page)

By then, the sweaty condensation on the bird made it impossible to tie to the handlebars. I took off my T-shirt, wrapped it around the turkey like I was swaddling a baby, and retied it for a third time, thinking that would do the trick. Not so. Crossing Eighty-seventh Avenue it came loose again. I swerved to avoid running it over and fell off my bike. There we were: me and a twenty-one-pound turkey, lying on the pavement in the middle of a four-lane road just as the traffic light turned green and cars began honking incessantly.
Surely the Indians and Pilgrims must have had an easier time,
I thought. With one hand on the handlebar and the other barely able to carry the turkey, I managed to inch my way over to the sidewalk. “That’s it!” I yelled at the bird. I tied it to the bike seat and walked my bike the rest of the way.

Once home, I washed off the scuff marks and grime with the garden hose before presenting the turkey to Abuela. There was a tear in the plastic seal, but the turkey was still frozen and intact.
“Qué grande. Qué lindo,”
Abuela praised it, none the wiser, and made room for it in the freezer. Mamá poked around and snooped inside the grocery bags. “What’s all this for?” she asked Abuela, who looked at me to answer her. “We’re gonna have a real
San Giving
this year, Mamá. Abuela’s going to make a turkey and yams and everything,” I explained. “
¿Cómo?
Turkey? Nobody knows how to make that. Especially not your Abuela. She can’t even cook Cuban food too good,” she jabbed. “Don’t worry,” Abuela said, trying to remain calm. “You sit your big
culo
down and relax—like you always do. Riqui is helping me—and he knows what he’s doing.”
“Bueno,”
Mamá replied, “I don’t know, you better cook something else too—some
carne puerco
, just in case.” “
Sí, sí, sí
—whatever,” Abuela said just as the bird slipped through her hands. It slid across the terrazzo floor, bounced down the single step from the kitchen into the Florida sunroom, and knocked into the TV. It lay there, mocking us, mocking
me,
basking in the sunlight, enjoying the breeze whispering through the jalousie windows and the view of the backyard mango tree framed by the sliding glass door.

Early on Thanksgiving morning, Abuela told me to put the turkey outside. “That’s the best way to defreeze it,” she said with authority. I put the turkey in a baking pan and placed it in the middle of the backyard terrace where the sun could shine on it all day. And Abuela faithfully followed all my instructions as I translated them to her, without adding any additional ingredients of her own: no Bijol, no garlic, no cumin. By two o’clock the yams were ready for the marshmallow topping and we had finished a pot of Stove Top Stuffing. “
¿Cómo?
Why? Where?” Abuela asked, as bewildered by the concept of stuffing as I was, despite Jimmy Dawson’s explanation, which I parroted to her: “Yes, Abuela, inside. That’s why they call it stuffing.” We stuffed the bird and put it in the oven alongside Abuela’s
just-in-case
pork shoulder, which she had marinated overnight with bitter orange and garlic
mojito
.

Wafts of roasting turkey. Wafts of roasting pork. The competing scents battled through the house while I helped Papá and Abuelo set up folding domino tables on both ends of our dining table. We assembled a mishmash of desk chairs, beach chairs, and stools stretching from the kitchen into the living room to seat all twenty-two relatives. I spent the rest of the afternoon making construction paper turkeys like Mrs. Echevarría had taught us in class. I placed one at each setting, then drew pumpkins all over the paper tablecloth and cut into its edges to make a frilly trim. Abuela added a bouquet of gladiolus, which didn’t fit the theme but made the table look better, despite the plastic plates and utensils.

“
¡Ay, Dios mío!
Come over here!” Abuela yelled for me. “What is that blue thing?” she asked, alarmed by the pop-up timer in the turkey, which she hadn’t noticed before and I had forgotten to point out. “Relax, Abuela. It’s nothing. It’s supposed to pop when the turkey is cooked,” I explained. “Really?
Cómo inventan los americanos
. They make everything so easy,” she said, relieved, then slid the turkey back into the oven, only to call me over again twenty minutes later. “
Bueno,
the
puerco
is done. The turkey must be done too—look at it,” she said. “
Pero,
Abuela, the blue thing hasn’t popped up. We can’t take it out!” I demanded. “
Ay, mi’jo,
look at the skin, toasty like the
puerco,
” she insisted, knocking on it with the back of a spoon. “It’s done I tell you.
Además,
it’s already seven o’clock. We have to put the other things in the oven before everyone gets here.” “
Pero,
Abuela, we can’t,” I repeated. She ignored my protest. “What do you know about cooking? Give me
los yames
and
el
pie.” I knew it was useless to argue any further and hoped for the best as I topped the yams with marshmallows and cinnamon and took the pumpkin pie out of the freezer.

The doorbell rang. “I told you,” she said smugly. “
Ándale
—get the door.” It was the Espinoza clan who arrived first—all three generations:
tía
Mirta with her showgirl hips;
tío
Mauricio wearing a tie and jacket, unwilling to accept that his days as a Cuban tycoon were over; their two children—my cousins—with fancy names: Margot and Adolfo; and their grandmother Esmeralda, who was constantly picking food out of her ill-fitting dentures. They burst through the door with kisses, hellos, and
Happy San Giving
s.
Tía
Mirta handed Mamá a giant pot she brought with her. “
Mira,
here are the
frijoles
. I think they are little salty,
pero
Mauricio was rushing me,” she said. Minutes later cousin Maria Elena arrived with her hair in curlers and a Saran-wrapped glass pan full of
yuca con mojito
.
Happy San Giving
. Then
tío
Berto with an open beer in one hand and four loaves of Cuban bread under his armpits.
Happy San Giving
.

At first I thought it was Abuela who didn’t trust that a purely American meal would satisfy. But when she was totally surprised by
tía
Ofelia’s golden caramel flan, I knew it wasn’t her; it was Mamá who must’ve asked everyone to bring a dish to sabotage Abuela’s first attempt at a real San Giving. My suspicion was confirmed when
tía
Susana arrived with a platter of fried plantains in a bed of grease-soaked paper towels. “
Mira,
” she said to Mamá, handing her the platter, “
los plátanos
that you asked me to bring—I hope they are sweet. Happy San Giving.” “Oh, you didn’t have to bring nothing,
pero gracias
anyway,” Mamá said, casually placing her palm against her cheek, a gesture that always gave her away when she was lying.

Abuela served the pork roast next to the turkey, pop-up timer still buried in the bird. A Cuban side followed every American side being passed from hand to hand. “That sure’s a big chicken,”
tío
Pepé chuckled as he carved into the bird and then the pork. “What’s this, the innards?” he asked when he reached the stuffing. I had to explain the stuffing concept again to all the relatives as he piled generous portions of turkey and pork on everyone’s plates. Papá was about to dig in when I insisted we say grace, proudly announcing I would read a special poem I had written as a prayer in Mrs. Echevarría’s class.

Dear God:

Like the Pilgrims and Indians did long ago

we bow our heads and pray so you’ll know

how thankful we are for this feast today,

and for all the blessings you send our way

in this home of the brave and land of the free

where happy we shall forever and ever be
.

Amen
.

As soon as I finished,
tía
Susana asked
tío
Berto, who then asked Minervino, who then asked Maria Elena, who then asked me what the hell I had just said. None of them understood a single word of my prayer in English.
“Bueno, ahora en español por favor,” tío
Mauricio requested, and I had to do an impromptu translation of my prayer in Spanish that ended with a resounding
Amen
and a roar of
“¡Feliz San Giving! ¡Qué viva Cuba!”
from the family. Nothing like the dittos.

And so the moment of truth was at hand, or rather, at mouth, as everyone began eating. Not even a minute later Mamá asked, “What’s this with
canela y merengue
on top? So sweet. Are you sure this isn’t dessert?” Abuela instantly responded to her spurn: “They are
yames,
just like yuca but orange and sweet—that’s all. Just eat.” “
Ay, Dios mío
—orange yuca! What about blue beans?” Mamá laughed, and the rest of the family joined in. “They are not like yuca. They are like boniato. It’s what they ate on the first Thanksgiving,” I explained. “Really . . . they had march-mellows that long ago?” Mamá quipped. She saw my face crumple. “What else do you know about San Giving,
mi’jo
?” she asked me, changing her tone and taking an interest. I went on for a few minutes, telling the tale of the Pilgrims and Indians in Spanish so that everyone could understand. But soon the conversation changed to
tía
Mirta’s black beans. “You make the best
frijoles
in all Miami,” Papá complimented her, and everyone agreed as they poured ladlefuls of black beans over their mashed potatoes like it was gravy. Nothing like the dittos.

“What’s this
mierda roja
for?” Abuelo asked me, holding a dish with a log of cranberry jelly. I was embarrassed to admit that I hadn’t figured out what it was for. “Well, it must be for
el pan,
” Abuelo assumed, and he began spreading cranberry jelly on his slice of Cuban bread, already buttered.
“Oh . . . sí . . . sí.”
Everyone responded to the solved mystery and followed suit. It was the thing they all seemed to enjoy the most, besides the roasted pork, of course, which
tío
Berto couldn’t stop praising as perfectly seasoned and perfectly tender. He spooned the bottom of the roasting pan and poured pork fat drippings over the lean slices of turkey on his plate. “
Ahora sí
. Much better. Not so dry,” he proclaimed after a taste, and then proceeded to drench the platter of carved turkey with ladles of pork fat swimming with sautéed onions and bits of garlic. Nothing like the dittos, but at least after that everyone had seconds of the turkey.

“What’s that?” Papá asked when Abuela set the pumpkin pie on the table. “I don’t know . . .” Abuela shrugged and looked to me for an answer. “Pumpkin pie,” I said proudly to blank faces at the table.
“Calabaza,”
I translated after realizing I might as well have said
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
.
“¿Calabaza?” tía
Mirta shouted incredulously.
“Pero
that’s for eating when you have ulcers and diarrhea, not a dessert.
Cómo inventan los americanos,”
she chuckled sarcastically. I wanted to smash the pie in her face, but instead I brought the box from the kitchen to show her it was a legitimate dessert. “Poom-quin pee-eh?”
tío
Regino read out loud, and the entire table burst out laughing. I hadn’t realized that
pie
is exactly how
foot
is spelled in Spanish. A
calabaza
foot—that’s what was for dessert. Not what I had in mind. “
Qué va,
there must be something else, no?”
tío
Regino petitioned, and
tía
Ofelia pranced in showing off her flan and set it on the table. Everyone began oohing and aahing. A creamy custard floating in a pool of caramelized sugar or an ulcer-curing pie? It was no competition.

No one touched the pumpkin foot, except me. I cut a huge slice and dug in. To my surprise, it tasted musty and earthy, just how I imagined the flavor of the color brown would be, though I couldn’t admit it. Instead I went on faking my pleasure—“Yum! Delicious”—hoping to tempt others into giving the pie a try. But no one did, except Caco, who could never resist an opportunity to ridicule me. He reached over with his spoon and scooped a chunk off my plate and into his mouth. “Gross! Yuck!” He grimaced and began spitting out the pie. In a flash I reached over to his plate with my spoon and mushed together his chewed-up pie with his slice of flan. We were heading for an all-out food fight, but Mamá put an end to it. “
¡Basta!
Enough, it’s San Giving Day,
por Dios Santo
.”

After dessert, Abuela made three rounds of Cuban coffee.
Tío
Berto and Abuelo moved the domino tables into the Florida room and played with Mauricio and Regino, slamming dominos and shots of rum on the table. “What’s this, a funeral?
Por favor,
a little
música, maestro,
”
tío
Berto requested, and Papá complied. He turned on the stereo system and put in
Hoy cómo ayer,
his favorite eight-track tape with eight billion songs from
their days
in Cuba. The crescendo began and Minervino took his butter knife and tapped out a matching beat on his beer bottle.
Tío
Berto grabbed a cheese grater from the kitchen and began scraping it with a spoon, playing it like a
güiro
. With that, Cousin Danita began one-two-threeing to a conga as she served Cuba libres for the men and crème de menthe for the ladies, her enormous, heart-shaped butt jiggling left and right as if it had a mind of its own. Inspired by her moves and a little too much rum,
tío
Mauricio took Mirta by the waist and before you could say Happy San Giving, there was a conga line twenty Cubans long circling the domino players around the Florida sunroom.

When the conga finished, the line broke up into couples dancing salsa while I sat sulking on the sofa.
You can’t teach old Cubans new tricks,
I thought, watching the shuffle of their feet. There seemed to be no order to their steps, no discernible pattern to the chaos of their swaying hips and jutting shoulders. And yet there was something absolutely perfect and complete, even beautiful, about them, dancing as easily as they could talk, walk, breathe. “
Ven,
I’ll show you,” Mamá insisted, pulling me by my hand, trying to get me to dance with her. “No, no, Mamá,
yo no sé
—I don’t know how,” I protested. “
¡Caramba!
You’re Cuban, aren’t you? It’s in your blood,
mi’jo,
you’ll see.
¡Ándale!
Get up!” she demanded, yanking me off of the sofa and onto the floor. She put her arm around my waist and my hand on her shoulder, leading me through the basic one-two and back. Turn. “More hip, more shoulder,” she spoke into my ear while pushing my body left and right. “Yes, like that . . .
así . . . bien . . . muy bien,
” she complimented me. “
Acuérdate,
even though you were born in España, you were made in Cuba—your soul is Cuban,” she said, reminding me—yet again—that I was conceived in Cuba seven months before she headed for Spain with me in her womb.