“Roberto wants me to stay home for a year. “Do you want to work-work? Or work-parent? I thought you said you were taking a little time off to be a full-time mom.” This was the most expensive kitchen I’d ever had the luck to possess. Your cooking is excellent.” Alma, dressed in a sleeveless white dress, stepped away from the mound of newsprint about to tumble off the quartz countertop. Before placing it on the stack that was building in the cupboard of my new Florida home, I shook the plate like a tambourine, “But, I don’t cook!” I crumpled the New York Post page that wrapped a chipped green dinner plate. Or, in my case, whatever was in my hands at the moment. Except, of course, she wasn’t Italian, and neither was I. It’s a short cooking demo on a morning show.” Alma shook her pinched hand like a stereotypical Italian grandmother. “Porfa, this is not going to take all week. “¿Qué es esto?” I waved my hand like a hostess showing someone to their table. I narrowed my eyes and glared at my best friend, Alma. And come on, Miriam, what else are you doing?” “¡Basta, Alma! I told you I’m not doing the show.” I accentuated each word with the knife I held in my hand before I stabbed the packing tape and sliced open box number five of forty-eight.
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