Emily Goldberg Learns to Salsa by MICOL OSTOW Page B

“guidelines” and “suggestions.”
    â€œWhat are you making?” I’m worried.
    â€œ Arroz con gandules . Rice and beans.”
    â€œRice and pigeon peas,” my mother corrects her. “That’s what they are, technically. The type of beans. Very healthy. Carbs.”
    I contemplate giving my mom a refresher course on the basics of the South Beach principle. But then, I don’t really care right now.
    â€œIt’s my mother’s recipe,” Rosa says.
    â€œ Our mother’s recipe,” my mother says. She’s all about precision this evening. Rosa ignores her.
    â€œI’d love to learn how to make it,” I hear myself say. Not only that, but as I say it, I realize, I mean it.
    â€œYou think the bacalao was bad for you?” Lucy chimes in. “This is going to be fun.” For once she doesn’t sound like she’s being sarcastic. This in and of itself is momentous. Sign me up for rice and beans, then, stat.
    â€œHow horrible could it be?” I ask. “You’ve got your rice, you’ve got your beans. I mean, simple carbs, sure, but no big.”
    I’ve been eating a lot of rice and beans since I got to Puerto Rico. I’d say it’s my favorite of the local dishes. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m about to learn why it tastes so much better here than plain old rice has ever tasted in the mainland. I’m going to learn, and then, possibly, I’m going to regret it.
    Lucy grins fiendishly. “There’s a secret ingredient.”
    She reaches into a cabinet just below the sink and pulls out an oversized industrial tub, which she sets down on the counter with a resounding thud.
    â€œWhat is that?” I squeak.
    She waits, then—“Lard.”
    Oh. My. God.
    I giggle. What else is there to do? Lard, clearly, is a very delicious substance. Who knew?
    I turn to Lucy, roll up my sleeves. “Fine. Lard. Bring it on.”
    I am so relieved, not for the first time since I’ve gotten here, that I am not a picky eater.
    â€œCome here,” my mother says, patting her leg in a gesture intended to call me over to her side. “I’ll show you.”
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    We return home in a carbtastic, lard-smeared post-meal coma, José shaking his head ruefully as Lucy and I belt out the words to the latest top-forty song on the car radio. Seriously, processed animal fat has done wonders to bring us together. I don’t even care that my waistband is digging into my stomach. Together Rosa, my mother, Lucy, and I cooked enough rice to feed an army, which was just the right amount for the whole extended family.
    After dinner chairs were cleared out of the dining room and salsa music was cranked up. Lucy and her mom busted into an impromptu rendition of dance fever, which roused everyone else from their food stupors. I don’t know whether or not it was typical post-church behavior, but everyone really seemed to enjoy it. Including my mother, who wove eagerly back and forth across the makeshift dance floor, grinning at me, beckoning.
    I am sorry to say that I didn’t get it together to join her, but I was stunned to find myself giving it thought. Serious thought. Puzzling, but I decided to chalk it up to the carbs.
    José smoothly pulls into the driveway. “I’m off to see Angela,” he says.
    â€œYour girlfriend?” I ask, feeling more familiar with him than I have since I’d arrived.
    â€œOf course,” he says. “I never told you her name?”
    I shake my head. “Believe it or not.”
    â€œHe hides her from us. He’s ashamed of her,” Lucy says. It’s hard to tell whether or not she’s kidding, she’s so deadpan all the time. But since we’ve had a fun night, I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt.
    â€œ Ay, mami , it’s not her I’m ashamed of,” he says. He winks to take the edge off his words. She rolls her