​My phone started ringing when I was a flight of stairs away from my flat’s door. I ran up the last twelve steps, grabbed the key, and unlocked the door. I was out of breath when I pressed the cool red plastic phone receiver to my ear.

“Maaaarrrrrryyyyyy!”

Only one person brayed my name that way and had done so since kindergarten.

“Steeeeeeve!”

A call from a friend in the States was a rare treat in the 1990s.

I knew there had to be a reason.

“What’s up, Steve? Are you coming to Spain?”

“Nope, but my parents are there – do you think you could do me a favor…”

And this was the beauty of living outside one’s own country: friends and family from where I grew up sent friends and family to me to get to know and to show around my beloved Madrid.

“Anything.”

Both of Steve’s parents would have birthdays so would I mind taking them out – would I mind getting them something chocolate?

Getting to know my friend’s parents better and an excuse to eat chocolate?

“No problem! Where are they staying?”

I got their details and assured Steve it would be fun.

“They bicker,” he warned.

“They’re parents.” I countered, “Mine bicker, too!”

I met up with Mr. and Mrs. C. at San Jines Chocolate shop one of the oldest in Madrid. We sat on shiny wooden seats and dunked crispy fried churros in thick and clingy hot chocolate.

“We love chocolate,” they both agreed, “but we could use some coffee after this!”

“I love coffee!”
​
Not a bicker in sight, and Mr. and Mrs. C. became Mort and Esther.

​


I think people learn to drink coffee when they are children.

Mama always had a pot of coffee percolating on the stove. She had so many children to wrangle and by her own confession, she drank eighteen cups of coffee while she was pregnant with me, her eighth child.

Mama took her coffee black. She poured it without a caffeine quiver to her hand. Recently brewed, piping hot, she gulped it down. Friends and neighbors - kitchen friends - would take their poured cup of coffee and go to the sink, open the tap and add an inch or so of water to bring the brew to a more drinkable state. Mama and her kitchen company would lean on the stainless steel counters and chat while the dog and I sat on the floor, cozy and comfortable with our pack leader.

By the time I was a teenager, the cups of coffee were mugs of coffee.

“Good coffee doesn’t need sugar.”

I tasted the dark, let the steam fog my glasses.

“Milk?”

“Who needs the extra calories?”

Caffeine pumped into my body already accelerated with adolescence. I eyed mama, lipstick on the rim of her mug. I measured the woman who bore me, so many, and so much. Her curved arthritic hands slid up and down the mug. She caught me.

“Tastes good and keeps your mitts warm!”

I gripped my mug tighter and let one hand glide down the burning side of the blue and white mug. A bit too hot for young hands, the brew a bit bitter, but I knew I would grow into it. I smiled.
​
“It’s perfect!”

​This weekend was an explosive reminder of why this blog is called, “Keep Mary out of the Kitchen”.

My husband had had a hectic week, so I volunteered to make dinner. Our college-aged children texted from their respective jobs, “Black beans and chicken burritos!”

This was one of my crowd-pleasers.

Except there was just one lone chicken breast in the meat drawer. I decided to improvise. My best friend always raves about fish tacos. I rummaged through my frozen foods and found two slim fillets of hake.

I chopped onions and peppers, added black beans and salsa. I added the chicken and fish. The mixture smelled too fishy.

I added salsa. For two small pieces of fish, the smell was strong, so I emptied the rest of my jar of salsa verde in the pan.

It simmered and the fish smell swam to the top. I used my favorite food camouflage, French’s mustard. I considered squirting some into the pan, but the offending odor encouraged me to unscrew the mustard top and let a palm-size of bright yellow plop into the pan.

I heard my husband in the garage and I stirred the mess quickly to disguise anything that perhaps should not be in the mix. The mustard mask worked.

“Gracias, I am so tired! I appreciate you making dinner tonight.”

I smiled angelically.

“Go get changed and clean up. We’ll have dinner when everyone gets home.”

As if conjured, both our children arrived.

“Black bean and chicken burritos – yes!”

My heart swelled in pride until its edges hit my deception.

“They’ll never know.” I reassured myself.

“Go get changed…” As soon as they left, I dug in the fridge to see what else might mask the fish – some habanero sauce. I dumped a bit in the bubbling pan.

Dinner ready, each of us made our burritos and filled them with the mess in the pan.

My husband was the first to detect my deceit.

“What is this, love? Is it different?”

I thought of lying but was worn out from dressing the fish up as spicy chicken.

“It’s fish.”

He frowned.

“Do they go together?”

My daughter joined in.

“I thought I smelled something funny.”

My son stayed loyal, “It tastes fine.” He took a second bite, “Calm down both of you. It’s good. Thank you, Mama.”

My daughter now joined her brother.

“It’s really just the smell….”

We were watching a movie when sudden smells told us that something truly had been off with dinner. Then, my son’s stomach rumbled in a way that was too familiar to his recent bout of flu.
​
Keep me out of the kitchen, indeed!