To Sing Frogs Chapter 45b

Thursday evening was more like a dream than an event. The villa was packed. It was as much a going away party for Mike as it was for the girls. My son had invited several families he attended church with in Jerez de la Frontera. He had also begged Josephina and José-Manuel to invite those of their family who he had gotten to know from former celebrations at their house.

Siblings of the Spanish couple as well as their spouses and children came to the barbecue. Women rushed around the kitchen preparing salads, sides, and deserts. They sampled and asked for recipes then sampled more and tried to figure out the always-elusive secret ingredient that the preparers never divulge.

“There! Look at this,” one said to another. “She said tuna. There is tuna. But this! Look at this! It’s crab, isn’t it? It has to be crab. Tuna isn’t that rich.”

Men stood over the propane grill flipping pieces of chicken, pork, and beef. José-Manuel had returned after work with pork that had been specially marinated for the event. We pulled off small pieces of the meats to taste. The Spaniards turned their noses up at the beef.

“Beef doesn’t have enough flavor for Spaniards,” José-Manuel told me.

It was easy to see why they thought that way. At the market I asked for rib eyes. They didn’t understand. I drew pictures. They didn’t get it. Then I sketched out a T-bone. Nothing but stupid looks.

“You want beef, right?” the meat cutter asked when I failed in my descriptions.

“Yes.”

“Okay, we have beef.” He pulled out what appeared to be a large rump roast. “How much do you want?”

“Five kilos,” I sighed. In Spain, beef is beef. “Cut it into steaks,” I said.

“What?”

Finally I drew a picture that could be comprehended.

            Amy and I had brought seasoning salts from home. They partially redeemed the low-grade cuts of meat.

“Hey, try this!” José-Manuel said to the others. “This is like no beef you have ever had. This is good! Almost as good as pork.”

We all ate together. Then we wandered and posed for occasional group photos. We enjoyed getting to know new people but the festiveness was tempered for the immediate families of the three little girls.

It was surreal that we were all there together. It was hard to accept the fact that our reunion would come to an end. It was heartrending to realize that borders and oceans would continue to prevail.

Even those who had a two-hour drive back to Jerez stayed until long after dark. Julia’s grandparents brought the girls into the house for a gift. Earlier that day we had purchased Flamenco dresses for the girls. There were also large matching silk roses for their hair. Grandma now presented each with a necklace of plastic beads and large colorful earrings to complete their costumes.

Embraces and handshakes were offered by departing friends who suspected they might never see my son again. When all of them were gone the rest of us returned to the family room in the villa. We didn’t know what to talk about. Mostly we sat.

The girls were growing grouchy with each other. Their mothers said it was because they were tired. The mothers were wrong.

Nobody wanted to say goodbye.

 

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