Empanadas

I hold two steaming aluminum foil containers.
One full of lumpia, seventy of them,
Hand-folded with care, precision, experience.
The empanadas in the other are soft, buttery,
Sweet, and warm.
Some of them have crumbling edges.

I’m so sorry, she says, I told you they were ready but I must have done something wrong, the edges are falling apart.

That’s fine, my mother says.

No, don’t worry, I can remake them, the woman says, her face just peeking out from the inside of her home, door half-closed to the cold outside. From inside wafts out the warm symphony of scents of a well-lived and well-loved Filipino home— notes of sinigang, of bicol express. Wind chimes sing from the back door.

I must have been rusty, she says. I took a break from cooking for a few months. Please, let me remake them.

My mother repeats herself.

We’re happy with whatever you make, she says.

Later, my mother would tell me that the woman had been asked by all the different Filipino restaurants in the area if she would cook for them, if she would run them. She refused.

My mother tells me that she chooses to make food out of her own home, give her gifts to people whom she trusts.

My mother takes the crumbling empanadas, against her many protests.

The woman charges her half for everything. My mother pays the full price anyway.

The woman stops my mother as she turns to leave. Her soft, wrinkled, well-worn hands grip the edge of the door.

She recounts to my mom a story about our family friend. How for the past few orders she completed for her, our friend yelled at her for taking too long to finish them.

I won’t cook for her anymore, she says. I don’t need to.

She takes my mother’s hand.

But I’ll cook for you, she whispers. Just don’t let her know.

My mother promises not to tell.

She brings the food back to the car, hands it to me.

On the car ride back she looks at me.

Do the things that you love, the way that you love to do them. Promise me that?

We set the table.
A soft, crumbling, steaming empanada for each plate.
My mother and I sit next to each other, and begin to eat.

MiC Columnist Danielle Shave can be reached at dshave@umich.edu

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