To Sing Frogs Chapter 44a

Most of the things in Russia, I don’t remember.

Sarah’s journal from Spain



Chapter 44

 

A Melding of Families

 

The clamp screwed tightly into the meat and bone several inches above the black hoof. Pata Negra. Black Hoof, the best of dry cured Spanish ham. José-Manuel had taken Mike and me to the market and helped us buy two grocery carts full of food. He shrugged as we asked for advice on types or brands for most of the items. That wasn’t the case with the watermelons. There were secrets to choosing the best. I had my own secrets so a subtle contest ensued as we each picked one.

Raw dry-cured hindquarters of pigs hung by the dozens in the open air. I had no experience in selecting Serrano Hams so I had to bow out of the contest. The first rule was you got what you paid for. It wasn’t that simple though. The connoisseur began squeezing. Firmer meant less fat, a better ham. I couldn’t feel a difference. The hams with black feet were the best that this market had to offer, José-Manuel explained. The pigs had been raised in the mountains and fed acorns. That’s what gave them their preferred flavor.

Mike and I unloaded groceries while Julia’s father mounted the ham to the expensive hardwood clamping system. Then he expertly sharpened the long straight blade with a steel. The carving knife had been specifically made for slivering off pieces of the hard pork.

“Come here, Mike,” the Spanish father said. “If you’re going to be a true Spaniard man you need to learn how to carve a ham.” Mike smiled and crowded in. “First you trim off the outside fat. Don’t go too deep. You don’t want to cut into the meat yet. Just go to where you feel it get hard. José-Manuel took several slices and then pointed to the dark red meat that was beginning to show. “Okay. You try it.” The knife was handed to the next generation and the Spaniard stood behind the young American, as he would have done with his own son. “Hold the clamp with your left hand to keep it from moving. Then carve from right to left with your right hand. Yeah. That’s right. Good. Wait! Be careful! You’ll cut your arm off! Go slow. Lots of men go to the hospital every year from cutting their arms and hands while carving hams. That’s better. Good. Good.” Within a few minutes the fat was gone. “Okay. Good. Now we cut the meat. Watch me for a minute.” The expert hand shaved off slivers of almost see-through ham. Then it arranged them for a perfect presentation on a white ceramic plate. “Okay. You do it. Good. Yes. Slow and easy. No. Wait. That’s too thick. Keep it thin. That’s better. Good.”

Soon we had a plate of ham and cheeses to go with the feast of fruits that the ladies had prepared for us to eat. The food covered the long wood table on the patio.

While they were still eating, I took my camera and began shooting pictures around the villa. The whitewashed walls sat in the lush green of the Mediterranean climate. It was a pearl set in emeralds as Alhambra must have been. The Villa of the Flowers was a paradise on earth. It was a miniaturized version of what the Moors of the Iberian Peninsula had tried to mimic centuries before. I watched three young girls with members of their families between three identical whitewashed arches that held up the roof of the covered patio.

I would have given them all a family—my family. That wasn’t what they needed.

Shy little Marina was now the youngest of three siblings. The two older ones had matured and moved on to start their own families. She was now the main focus of parents who doted over her every move. A loving mother and adoring father took her natural talents and worked them, manicured them and gave her direction. Marina was already playing concert piano pieces to perfection. The Yellow Monarch Butterfly idolized her big sister and rightfully so. Yana taught, looked over, and cared for Marina as the little sister she had always dreamed of having. That child would have struggled in our family because of her shyness. She could never have competed for attention and must have drowned in a sea of siblings had she come to live with us. A focus on the timid girl came naturally in the family that was now hers.

Scholastics required more effort for Julia than many children. Her new parents had learned to be patient as they waited for a child year after year after year. She would be their only one. Julia could not forget nor forgive the abuses she received during her time in Russia. Her parents allowed her the feelings she needed to have. The tool used to combat the hate that could not be extinguished was a smothering of love and understanding. Julia required more affection than two people could give. She still couldn’t compete with others for the undying and unconditional love of her parents. The extended family of the Pozos gave her just what she needed. Grandparents living next door—near permanent fixtures in her home—adored her. Multiple aunts and uncles as well as cousins upon cousins upon cousins provided the little girl with love and attention from every side and level, all with no competition. Parents had tempered her justifiable indignation from the past and helped her find peace in the present.

Sarah required a family with the means to get her help with emotional and psychological issues. Such would have come to anyone forced to live her past. She needed parents who would pursue the siblings left behind. A mother was required who understood abuse first-hand, one who could empathize. It was necessary that Sarah’s mother could deal with the sporadic difficulties brought on by her condition. She needed a mom who could watch representations of herself trampled in mock murders without rejecting an injured child.

Somehow each of those three former orphans had received exactly what they needed.

Three little orphan girls in an atheist country had prayed to a God they couldn’t see. Like my wife, they didn’t question how that Being might answer those prayers. I love Mysterious Way Believers even though I don’t understand them.

When brunch was over Anya and Yana took the girls for a walk down the lane to make more memories. They laughed and talked and squealed and screamed while they traveled the rough dirt road that had finally brought us all together.

 

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