about Emmy? Is she dressed for dinner?”
A bell clanged somewhere on the grounds.
Emmy’s door jerked open and Cuddy stepped out grinning—until he glanced up at Willem’s reddening face. He winced then shoved his hat on his head and offered a weak smile. “Folks, that sound means dinner’s served. Around here, if you’re late, there won’t be nothing left.”
He tipped his hat at Emmy, who stood gaping at her papa from the door, and swaggered to the head of the stairs without another glance in their direction.
***
Emmy had never witnessed such a flurry of activity around a table. Three Mexican girls bearing trays wove in and out on countless trips to the kitchen. When Emmy didn’t think another platter would fit between the mounds of stringy pork, tall stacks of tortillas, steaming bowls of beans, and crockery pots filled with spicy-smelling dishes, one of the chattering girls brought in a charger filled with brilliant red slices of yet another food she didn’t recognize.
Mr. Rawson forked a piece and held it up for inspection. “Know what this is?” he asked no one in particular.
Papa wiped his mouth and smiled. “I believe I do, but let the womenfolk have a guess.”
Aunt Bertha leaned in closer. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen such a fancy-colored food before.” She shot a look at Mr. Rawson. “Assuming that
is
food.”
Mr. Rawson transferred the item in question to her plate. “Why don’t you tell me?”
She picked around it cautiously with the tip of her fork then raised her eyes to his. “You sure about this?”
He smiled. “You’ve eaten a watermelon, haven’t you?”
She nodded.
“Well, it tastes a bit like that, only watered down.”
Talked into it, she cut a big piece and shoved it in her mouth. Her broad smile pleased Mr. Rawson, if his booming laugh was any indication. “That’s cactus pear, Mrs. Bloom. Fresh cut this morning.”
“Call me Bertha, and I’ll call you John. Is that all right?”
“Why, sure it is.” He pointed at a nearby platter. “Those vegetables there are cactus pads, Bertha.
Nopalitos,
we call them. We brush them with oil and toss them on the grill. I think you’ll find them delicious.”
Mrs. Rawson passed Emmy a crock filled to the brim with a savory-looking dish. “And this is pork stew with
nopales,
a wonderfully tasty addition.” She turned to Mama. “Magda, the preserves you just spread on that tortilla?” She nodded for emphasis. “Cactus jelly.”
Aunt Bertha reached for another bright-red piece of pear and chewed it thoughtfully. “Let me get this straight. The leaves are a vegetable but the pears are a fruit. All from the same plant? How can that be?”
Their hostess beamed. “It’s a versatile commodity in the South, as adaptable as this region and its resourceful people.”
Cuddy laughed. “And just as prickly as these people when they’re crossed.” He had ignored his mother’s place cards and planted himself in Greta’s chair beside Emmy, earning him a sharp glare from Papa.
Greta didn’t seem to mind since it put her opposite them next to Diego.
Emmy had explained to her parents that the door to her room wasn’t plumb, so it had swung shut by itself when Cuddy walked her onto the balcony to see the view. Grouchy old Papa hadn’t believed a single word.
A hand reached between Emmy and Cuddy to place a dish of deep-green peppers on the table.
Emmy followed the shawl-wrapped arm to find a new face among the servers, this one slightly older. Something about her solemn expression intrigued Emmy. Her serenity and the way she held herself said she was out of place in the role of a servant.
Her presence sparked a peculiar reaction in Diego that Emmy could feel from where she sat. Already somber, when he saw who stood there he tensed and laid down his fork. One side of his jaw twitched, and his eyes darkened with irritation.
One of the serving girls whispered to the newcomer in Spanish. She answered quietly. Mr.
A bell clanged somewhere on the grounds.
Emmy’s door jerked open and Cuddy stepped out grinning—until he glanced up at Willem’s reddening face. He winced then shoved his hat on his head and offered a weak smile. “Folks, that sound means dinner’s served. Around here, if you’re late, there won’t be nothing left.”
He tipped his hat at Emmy, who stood gaping at her papa from the door, and swaggered to the head of the stairs without another glance in their direction.
***
Emmy had never witnessed such a flurry of activity around a table. Three Mexican girls bearing trays wove in and out on countless trips to the kitchen. When Emmy didn’t think another platter would fit between the mounds of stringy pork, tall stacks of tortillas, steaming bowls of beans, and crockery pots filled with spicy-smelling dishes, one of the chattering girls brought in a charger filled with brilliant red slices of yet another food she didn’t recognize.
Mr. Rawson forked a piece and held it up for inspection. “Know what this is?” he asked no one in particular.
Papa wiped his mouth and smiled. “I believe I do, but let the womenfolk have a guess.”
Aunt Bertha leaned in closer. “Don’t reckon I’ve ever seen such a fancy-colored food before.” She shot a look at Mr. Rawson. “Assuming that
is
food.”
Mr. Rawson transferred the item in question to her plate. “Why don’t you tell me?”
She picked around it cautiously with the tip of her fork then raised her eyes to his. “You sure about this?”
He smiled. “You’ve eaten a watermelon, haven’t you?”
She nodded.
“Well, it tastes a bit like that, only watered down.”
Talked into it, she cut a big piece and shoved it in her mouth. Her broad smile pleased Mr. Rawson, if his booming laugh was any indication. “That’s cactus pear, Mrs. Bloom. Fresh cut this morning.”
“Call me Bertha, and I’ll call you John. Is that all right?”
“Why, sure it is.” He pointed at a nearby platter. “Those vegetables there are cactus pads, Bertha.
Nopalitos,
we call them. We brush them with oil and toss them on the grill. I think you’ll find them delicious.”
Mrs. Rawson passed Emmy a crock filled to the brim with a savory-looking dish. “And this is pork stew with
nopales,
a wonderfully tasty addition.” She turned to Mama. “Magda, the preserves you just spread on that tortilla?” She nodded for emphasis. “Cactus jelly.”
Aunt Bertha reached for another bright-red piece of pear and chewed it thoughtfully. “Let me get this straight. The leaves are a vegetable but the pears are a fruit. All from the same plant? How can that be?”
Their hostess beamed. “It’s a versatile commodity in the South, as adaptable as this region and its resourceful people.”
Cuddy laughed. “And just as prickly as these people when they’re crossed.” He had ignored his mother’s place cards and planted himself in Greta’s chair beside Emmy, earning him a sharp glare from Papa.
Greta didn’t seem to mind since it put her opposite them next to Diego.
Emmy had explained to her parents that the door to her room wasn’t plumb, so it had swung shut by itself when Cuddy walked her onto the balcony to see the view. Grouchy old Papa hadn’t believed a single word.
A hand reached between Emmy and Cuddy to place a dish of deep-green peppers on the table.
Emmy followed the shawl-wrapped arm to find a new face among the servers, this one slightly older. Something about her solemn expression intrigued Emmy. Her serenity and the way she held herself said she was out of place in the role of a servant.
Her presence sparked a peculiar reaction in Diego that Emmy could feel from where she sat. Already somber, when he saw who stood there he tensed and laid down his fork. One side of his jaw twitched, and his eyes darkened with irritation.
One of the serving girls whispered to the newcomer in Spanish. She answered quietly. Mr.
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