Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Yes, you leave the rest of dinner to Daniela and me,” Star says. “We’ve got it under control.”
“Okay,” I say, wiping my hands and stepping back to admire the chaos. “Time to plate this.”
Star raises her glass in a toast. “To beautiful women in beautiful kitchens…committing beautiful crimes against tradition.” Then she grabs a mixing bowl. “Time to teach you what corn wants to be when it grows up.”
She’s already roasted the corn—smoky, golden kernels with just the right char. Now she’s scraping them off the cob.
“Watch and learn,” she says, tossing the corn into the bowl. “First rule of esquites—don’t you dare skimp on the mayo.”
She starts mixing in the mayonnaise, sour cream, and crumbled cotija. A sprinkle of chili powder. A dash of tajín. Then chopped cilantro.
I can’t stop smiling. I could learn a lot from Star.
She squeezes in fresh lime juice, and then she dips a spoon in and holds it out to me. “Taste this and tell me you’re not ready to marry a bowl of corn.”
I take the bite. Tangy, creamy, smoky, with just the right kick of heat.
“Wow,” I say.
Star laughs, scooping the salad into a shallow dish and dusting the top with more cotija and lime zest.
“Ladies,” she says, “this is street food dressed for a party.”
She’s not wrong. The whole thing looks like summer and smells like temptation.
Star claps her hands. “All right, Savannah. Do you need help with dessert?”
“The cakes are cooling,” Savannah says. “I’m going to make the milk now.” She pours sweetened condensed milk into a saucepan. “I love your coffee idea, Daniela. That’s so creative!”
She adds evaporated milk and heavy cream to the pot, stirring slowly. Then she reaches for dark Colombian coffee that I brewed. The scent hits instantly—rich and roasted, sharp enough to cut through the sweetness of the milk.
Savannah leans over the pot and inhales. “Mmm. That’s tres leches with a caffeine addiction.”
Once the coffee-milk mix is warm and blended, Savannah pokes holes all over the cake and pours it over the top, letting the sponge drink it in.
I wipe my hands on my apron.
“All right,” Star says. “Let’s serve this up and call those hungry men and women in for dinner.”
11
HAWK
Seems strange sitting down at our large dining room without Dad here.
His spot at the head of the table is empty.
I stand by it, my hand on the back of the chair, waiting to see where everyone else ends up before I take my place.
But before I can, my mother whisks past me. “That’s your father’s chair, Hawk.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Of course it’s my father’s chair. I wasn’t expecting to sit here.
I can’t help but wonder, though, if Falcon or Eagle would get the same attitude from her if one of them tried to sit here.
I’m just standing here as I wait for everyone else to take their seats.
We have Vinnie here plus Daniela and Belinda, and I want them to find spots where they want to sit. If one of them ends up in my normal spot, so be it. I’ll take a different one.
I want to tell my mother all of this, but I don’t. I stay silent to keep the peace. To do otherwise would ruin what is supposed to be a celebration for Raven and Vinnie.
I simply nod and say, “I know. I’m just waiting for everyone to get settled.”
Falcon finds his normal spot, and Savannah sits next to him. Eagle finds his usual place as well.
Daniela and Belinda take seats as directed by my mother.
Once everyone is seated, the only open seat—other than my father’s—is next to Eagle.
Great.
With no staff here tonight, we pass the dishes like a regular family. It’s nice actually. It helps that all the men in our family—even Eagle, who used to be a skinny little slip of a thing—have strong, toned arms to maneuver the heavy platters around the table.
“Daniela and I got a little creative in the kitchen tonight,” Mom says. “She suggested a variation of a Colombian favorite, bandeja paisa, incorporating some elements of Mexican cuisine. So we created bandeja norteña.” She takes her seat. “Buen provecho!”
I take the first bite and have to close my eyes.
It’s the carne asada that hits me first—smoky, tender, with just enough spice. The beans are slow-cooked and rich, and a fried egg bleeds golden over the whole plate. I drag my fork through the yolk, scoop up a little of everything, and go back for more.
Savannah’s across from me. “Someone should call the food police,” she says through a mouthful of corn salad.
Mom beams.
I stab into the esquites next. The lime cuts through the richness, the cotija gives it a little salt, and a background note of heat builds with every bite.
“Holy hell,” I mutter, pointing at the bowl with my fork. “You’re trying to kill us.”