Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa by MICOL OSTOW Page A

“That’s me.”
    â€œShe doesn’t speak Spanish,” Lucy interrupts, which, while technically true enough, doesn’t really apply in this instance. So, whatever.
    â€œTú te pareces exactamente como tu mamá,” he continues. He’s either totally ignoring Lucy or his English is about as good as my Spanish. He’s also speaking in that super-slow way that some people do when they think it will help you to understand a foreign language. But I get the gist—I look like my mother. It’s true, I’m sure, but suddenly the information carries with it new meaning.
    â€œThat’s what they say,” I offer lightly, hoping he can get my point from context. Lucy raises an eyebrow, possibly impressed that I’ve scaled the language barrier. Possibly. With her, it’s so tough to tell.
    â€œYour mom is in the kitchen,” Lucy says, in such a way that makes it clear that I should be there with her. There is, however, a little less bark to her bite.
    I shove through the crowd—at least there’s no cigarette smoke yet (a concession to the Sabbath?)—to find my mother at the stove. She’s dropping chunks of something floured into a hissing, spitting pan. “What are you making?”
    â€œWhat? Oh, there you are.” She smiles at me. “ Bacalao . Salt cod.”
    Barf. Fish sticks are inauspicious regardless of geography. Also, my mother’s most famous dinner is her Monday night phone call to the local Italian place. What is she thinking, actually cooking something?
    â€œSalt cod?” It’s out of my mouth before it occurs to me that I might be insulting, oh, everyone here.
    â€œIt’s Spanish originally,” she explains. “You take the cod—filet, of course—”
    â€œOf course—” I tease. I mean, that much, at least, I got.
    She ignores me. “And you soak it. It can be for a few hours or overnight. But you soak it in salt water so it takes the flavor.”
    Fair enough. I have nothing against sodium.
    â€œAnd then you dredge it in flour—”
    I gesture to the big honking pile of damp flour that’s spread on the countertop next to her; yes, I understand .
    â€œAnd you deep-fry it.”
    â€œVery, um, health conscious,” I say, as though I’ve never eaten, like, a bacon double cheeseburger.
    She hands a chunk of freshly battered fish to me. It’s still warm. “Try it.”
    I do. My suspicion erodes the moment the food touches my lips. The crust is just crisp enough without being overly greasy. The fish inside is delicate, more subtle than I would have thought, tangy and flaky.
    â€œLike a fancy fish stick,” I quip, my initial thought validated. “Very South Beach friendly. Not.”
    But Mom can see through the comment, I know. The fish is delicious.
    â€œYeah, señorita, you have to watch yourself,” my aunt Amalia says, grabbing at her own ample glutes. “You’ve got the puertorriqueño genes, and so . . .” She smacks her own backside again for good measure.
    She’s not slapping my ass, but I’m mortified just the same. Is she implying that I’m fat? Or that I’m destined to be fat? Is she right? I’ve been lucky enough that I don’t have to worry too much about what I eat, but . . .
    I catch the twinkle in my mom’s eyes, recall her frowning, squinting dance in the Century 21 dressing room every bathing suit season.
    Destiny, genetics, who cares? I’m fine, and anyway, it’s funny. I laugh. So does my mother.
    â€œ Mira , if you’re so worried about health food, you can help me,” Rosa says.
    My mother shoots Rosa a quick look, then glances back at me. She hasn’t interfered with the curfew and the house rules at Rosa’s, of course—when in Rome—but she does care, she does want to be sure I’m not totally losing my mind here, abiding by Rosa’s helpful